


Kings in Couture

by slightlied



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Fashion & Couture, M/M, aspiring journalist yuuri, devil wears prada au, everyone's in this ok!, fashion editor victor, mutual pining and messy feelings but make it fashion, victor and yurio are brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:01:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlied/pseuds/slightlied
Summary: “Okay, okay. Ready.” Yuuri starts scribbling as the voice on the other end, someone from the Style and Trends department, relays instructions. “Sorry, can you please spell ‘Gabbana’?”The person on the line promptly hangs up on him.Awkwardly, he sets the phone back on the receiver. “Guess not.”—an inspired by the devil wears prada au; victor is the editor-in-chief of a fashion magazine, and yuuri is his new secretary.





	1. My Calvins

**Author's Note:**

> related works:
> 
>   * [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10422702/chapters/23012415) by hannahrose
>   * [portuguese brazilian translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095557) by perhappiness
> 

> 
> basically, this happened because [this](https://actualyuuri.tumblr.com/post/156451637369/forovnix-actualyuuri-victuuri-the-devil) happened. aka all the love and creds goes to braveten for writing the prompt <3 
> 
> please note: vogue doesn’t exist in this au because hmc *is* vogue in this au, basically (victor might as well be miranda priestly and anna wintour all rolled into one lmao) and yes everyone's going to be in this ok they're all fashion people and it's glamorous

Yuuri stares up at the gleaming building in front of him. It’s bright, glaring, imposing, and Yuuri knows this is New York City and there are skyscrapers everywhere, but _this_. One World Trade Center is a serious _skyscraper_.

The directory next to the pristine pair of glass doors is as sleek and shiny as the architecture of the building, and just there near the top, under the Feltsman Media Group section, the words _History Maker Couture_ glitter back at him. Invitingly or menacingly, Yuuri hasn’t decided yet.

The thing is, is that Yuuri’s not sure, exactly, how he’s ended up here.

For the past eight months, he had been interning with his best friend at the leading publication for travelling and vacations. His work wasn’t particularly special; coffee runs, copy jobs, helping out with photoshoots. Yuuri didn’t mind all the busywork, really, because it helped him lose ten pounds. His mom has started cooing about how unhealthy and miserable he looks during their weekly video chats.

It’s all a ploy, Yuuri knows—some psychological tactic to get him to go back home to Japan—and he’s not falling for it.

And there was also the matter of Experience. Fresh out of university, this was something Yuuri was sorely lacking. Phichit had them make a vision board together of their futures once, and Experience was capitalized _and_ underlined. Twice. After all, he couldn’t hope to be a successful journalist one day without going through the motions of the corporate ladder, now, could he? So he embraced what he did, plunged himself into the world of Jetsetter magazine, despite the horror stories about its editor-in-chief, Lilia Baranovskaya.

And she turned out not so bad, if only a bit strange. Yuuri remembers the first time she spoke to him:

“You,” Lilia had said while he was trying to exit a conference room after dropping off coffee for the editorial team.

He froze. “Yes?” he asked, only turning around when she didn’t answer after a long, painfully awkward moment.

He was met with her piercing gaze. “Stay,” she commanded.

There is really only two rules at Jetsetter, and those were: (1) read the magazine, and (2) listen to Lilia. Breaking rule one you could get away with _sometimes_ , if you were lucky enough to miss the ridiculous pop quizzes that HR sprung on the rest of the staff at any given moment of the week.

Breaking rule two, on the other hand, was unforgivable, and meant death.

“The last person who broke rule two now works at TV guide,” one of the editors had told him and Phichit on their first day.

Yuuri and Phichit are too poor to afford cable, so he wasn’t really sure what TV guide was, but it sounded terrifying.

So he listened and he stayed.

And it went on like this for a few weeks, her telling him to stay for the meetings and him hanging around awkwardly in the back of the room, shifting positions between leaning to his side against the wall, and leaning backwards to rest his elbows on the back counter. He was the only intern she asked this of, as far as he knew—the only intern who was always present at the meetings, anyway—and he didn’t really understand why. Neither did Phichit, and his friend told him mysteriously, “It’s probably a sign. You know what to do.”

Actually, Yuuri had no idea what to do, except to just do whatever it was Lilia told him to. No way was he breaking rule two. How could he even work at TV Guide, without himself owning a TV?

And then, as randomly as she had asked him the first time to stay behind for a meeting, she turned her attention to him one day in the middle of one.

“And what do you think?” she addressed the question to him after one of the editors had given a brief overview of their spread.

He choked—on something, a combination of air and his own saliva—because this was the first time she had told him more than one word at a time, and it was _during_ _the middle of the meeting_. He was so used to lingering in the background. “Sorry?”

All the editors were looking at him expectantly. It didn’t seem at all weird to them that a random intern had suddenly been joining their meetings for the past three weeks.

“Um.” He cleared his throat. “Well, the tourism in Europe is definitely stronger than that in Africa, because everyone’s familiar with the continent, being a huge sphere of influence in Western culture and all, so. Maybe we could showcase Cape Town as the new Paris or Rome or… something?” he offered, eyes scrambling around at all the faces looking back at him.

Although he found comfort in the fact that some of the editors were nodding along in agreement, he couldn’t help inwardly cringing at how crudely informal he sounded. 

Lilia had only pursed her lips. Replied with, “Hm.”

Yuuri had no idea what that meant, until the next week when the head editor of the City Guides column clapped him on the back and congratulated him on good work.

They had reworked the entire spread, per his suggestion, for the latest print of the issue.

A new cycle emerged, then, and it started with Yuuri attending meetings without Lilia having to tell him to anymore, and ended with her saying, “Hm,” every few times she asked him to speak. His ideas weren’t used all the time, but he knew that getting, “Hm,” highly increased the chance that it would, and meant that he was doing good work.

He started getting invited to lunch with the rest of the editors, too. Phichit insisted on coming along with them, lest Yuuri started getting a big head. And it’s a joke, of course, because Yuuri’s body composition is comprised of 65% water and 35% self-deprecation.

There was one recorded full-blown smile from Lilia. It was a breezy day near the end of July, and a sort of epiphany had dawned on Yuuri. He doesn’t even remember what he said, just that Lilia was suddenly smiling at him, and that Lilia had _teeth._ Like a proper, normal person.

Lilia probably eats breakfast with those teeth, Yuuri had thought distractedly. It was weird, the realization that Lilia probably also slept at night and did normal people things like make trips to the grocery store. 

God, what if Lilia was married? She was properly past middle-aged, Yuuri realized. There was a solid chance that she _was_ married. He had to stop that train of thought before things could get more bizarre.

But they did, things. They got more bizarre.

Shortly after The Smile, the cycle stopped. Just like that. Lilia called him into her office one morning and said she was terminating his internship.

“I’m not firing you,” she said gently. “I’m just letting you go.”

And didn’t that mean the same thing?

She sighed at the expression of confusion on his face. “You’re not leaving, per se. You’re just going somewhere else.”

Yuuri thought he couldn’t really understand Lilia before, but now she was just completely incomprehensible. “Um, can I ask. Why?”

She sighed again. “Don’t you want to push yourself? Don’t you dream of bigger things and better opportunities?” 

And granted, his vision board didn’t outline being an intern for the rest of his career, but Yuuri didn’t understand why he couldn’t just find those better opportunities _here._ At Jetsetter. Where Phichit said he was “making real waves,” whatever that meant.

Lilia promised a good severance package, then gave him information on the job interview she had lined up for him.

“Do you know HM Couture?” she asked him.

What kind of a question is that? Yuuri wanted to tell her.

“Yes,” he answered instead. 

And it was less of the fact that he knew the magazine (or even read it at all), but more that Yuuri knew who its editor-in-chief was. Because everyone in publishing knew who its editor-in-chief was. Even people beyond publishing knew who it was because, because they were the kind of person who brought different worlds together and started new trends and changed the game. They were—

“Victor Nikiforov,” Lilia said. “They’re holding interviews for a secretary position under him.”

And that was brilliant and all, working under Victor Nikiforov himself, but that wasn’t necessarily a journalism job. Yuuri was a _journalist—_ or, he was trying to be—and he didn’t know anything about fashion, anyway.

Yuuri told her as much, leaving out the part where he sincerely believed that existing in the same vicinity as Victor Nikiforov would probably lead him to a premature death.

“Yuuri.” Lilia sounded exasperated. Yuuri blinked, because that was the first time ever that she was calling him by his name. “With the position that I’m in, there’s only so much I can do for you. And getting you this interview is the farthest branch that I can reach, but fortunately it’s also the branch with the most fruit. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I… think?” Yuuri said hesitantly. For a journalist, Lilia was getting much too poetic for his comfort zone.

“HM Couture opens doors, Yuuri,” Lilia explained impatiently. “But Nikiforov… he opens gates. He’s _the_ gate. To the rest of the industry. His last secretary got promoted to Vanity Fair. Her own column _,_ ” she said this last part with a pointed look.

_Oh._

Yuuri understood now, what she was saying. The kind of magic power that Victor Nikiforov wielded. But this only lead to a new, more confusing question in his head.

“Lilia, not that I’m ungrateful for everything you’re doing for me,” Yuuri said carefully, running a hand through his hair. “But, um, _why_?”

_Why me?_

Lilia regarded him for a moment. He waited nervously, eyes flickering to the sun setting in the window behind her.  

Finally, she spoke. “I sincerely hope you find your confidence in yourself, Yuuri. There are only so many people who will help you along the way.”

And that was that, apparently.

 

\---

 

“Yuuri? You still there?”

He coughs and adjusts his grip on the phone at his ear, narrowly misses getting shoved into traffic by passing pedestrians. Manhattan at seven-thirty on a Monday morning is bustling with hostile, half-awake New Yorkers, and Yuuri hurries out of their way, plasters himself against the building. “Y-yeah, Phichit. I’m just about to head in.”

Which is true, even though he’s lingering outside, not completely ready to make his way into the lobby. But Phichit doesn’t have to know that.

“Are you nervous? Aw, I wish I could’ve gone with you,” Phichit says wistfully, and Yuuri can practically hear his face shrinking into a pout at the other end of the line. “You know how Lilia is, though, she pushed up the deadline on those Budapest prints to noon. Which means she actually needs it by ten.”

Yuuri cracks a small smile at this. “I miss Lilia.”

It’s only been a week since he left—was fired from? “let go” from?—Jetsetter, and Yuuri knows he had only just been an intern, but it sincerely feels like his whole life is being uprooted.

Phichit snorts. “You do not. You really shouldn’t lie to yourself so early in the week.” His voice turns teasing. “You haven’t even met your new boss yet. I’m sure when you see him you won’t even _remember_ Lilia.”

“Phichit, we don’t know if I have this job yet,” Yuuri reminds him, but his heart rate speeds up at his friend’s words.

_His new boss._

God, he’s probably in the building right at this moment, after years of Yuuri merely dreaming about seeing him in the flesh, and he could be _his new boss_.

Yuuri’s feeling only slightly woozy. Multiplied by ten.

“Seriously, tell me what he’s wearing, okay?” Phichit says eagerly. “I read somewhere that he has a personally monogrammed Louis Vuitton bag. I know he’s the editor-in-chief of HM Couture, so, duh, he probably has his own monogrammed Louis Vuitton everything, but if you can pull your eyes away from his face long enough to see what he’s got on--”

“ _Phichit_ ,” Yuuri squeaks indignantly. The wooziness is steadily dialing up to a solid fifteen.

“Or, you know, by all means, let your eyes run wild. Ooh, if you’re lucky, he could be wearing one of those tight Calvin Klein jeans that are so hot right now. You know the ones, right?”

Yuuri does know the ones. He had tried them on looking for clothes to wear for today, and they hugged his ass, not necessarily in an uncomfortable way, but they were decidedly inappropriate for the occasion. He vividly remembers the mortification of feeling the tight fit around his thighs, the furious red covering his face as he fled Fifth Avenue and practically ran home. He ended up settling for a loose pair of slacks, a thin sweater, and a blazer.

Yuuri looks down at his clothes now, picks away a stray piece of lint from his sleeve. Nods to himself because, yeah, it was good that he dismissed the jeans. It’s fine and perfect, because he’s not the type, anyway, to wear things like that.

Victor Nikiforov, though. Victor Nikiforov wearing tight Calvin Kleins would be just—

Yuuri firmly pushes the image out of his mind, slightly disgusted with himself. He’s potentially your new boss, he reminds himself. Don’t make it weird before anything even happens.

Phichit’s still talking, he realizes, and his friend’s voice has somehow escalated to new levels of manic excitement. “All I’m saying is that you’ve got this opportunity here to really do some good in the world, so when he’s not looking, you know, just snap a few pictures here and there and—”

“Phichit, oh my god, no.”

“What?”

Hopeless. His friend is completely hopeless and _not_ helping. Yuuri sighs. “I have to go. I’m going to be late, and then we’ll see if I even had a fighting chance at this job.”

Phichit tsks. “You have one hell of a fighting chance at this job and you know it.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri concedes. He remembers Lilia’s comment about this being the highest branch she could reach for him. He still doesn’t understand what she meant by that, but if Lilia was apparently fighting tooth and nail for him, then _maybe._ Maybe he does have a real shot at this job.

And maybe Victor Nikiforov will notice him today, and maybe Victor Nikiforov will even _like_ him, and maybe Yuuri won’t actually throw up from all these _possibilities_.

“Maybe,” Phichit repeats. “Unbelievable. The man’s got a reference from Lilia Baranovskaya and he thinks _maybe_ he’ll get the job.” Yuuri can hear Phichit’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. “Yeah, sure. You do know who Victor’s boss is, right? Anyway. Just text me when you get it, okay?”

When the call ends, Yuuri’s feeling only slightly better. He’s grateful for his friend, however excitable or suggestive he can get, because his enthusiasm usually ends up distracting Yuuri from the anxiety he can easily lose himself in, but in this case. In this case, Phichit’s words echo back at him and they’re—

_Ooh, if you’re lucky, he could be wearing one of those tight Calvin Klein jeans that are so hot right now._

Yuuri grinds his teeth together, glances up again at the silver letters shining down at him, takes several calming breaths. They’re hardly effective, but he pinches himself. Tries to get a grip, and focus on positive energy or whatever it is Phichit’s collection of self-help books instruct. Concentrates on _Just text me when you get it, okay?_ and, with his heart beating up a storm and his mind screaming at him to run in the opposite direction, he shoulders his portfolio bag and makes his way inside.

 

\---

  

White.

All Yuuri can see is white, glass, and more white. After stepping off the elevator, Yuuri’s first thought is that the HM Couture headquarters looks more like an ice castle, and less so like the office of a fashion magazine publication. Then again, HM Couture is _the_ fashion magazine publication, so Yuuri understands if this place looks more like a fortress housing vogue royalty rather than a twenty-first century office building in the middle of Manhattan.

Still. Could it possibly be _too_ white? Yuuri wonders.

The floors are a pale marble, absolutely spotless and with faint dark swirls dancing across the surface. All the furniture as far as Yuuri can see through the various glass walls are white (or variations of white), in wood, marble, and leather.

The only spots of color, really, are the actual people working in the office—and they’re all so terribly busy, Yuuri notes, hurrying between conference rooms and talking into their phones and hauling trays of coffee from the Keurig stations in the small refreshments room in a corner—and the racks.

Racks upon racks of clothing.

They’re everywhere, lining the hallways and even spilling into the reception. The hanger capacity of each rack is definitely bursting above maximum, and some garments are zipped up in laundry bags but the rest are easily visible, and they look like the kind of expensive fabric that Yuuri probably shouldn’t touch or even be breathing around. He consciously takes three steps away as a woman pulling one of the racks passes him.  

“Can I help you?”

Yuuri gulps and turns to the lady behind the reception desk, who’s looking at him like he must be lost. He tries not to flinch under her stare.

“Hi, um, I’m here for a job interview, actually,” he says, trying to ignore the way she squints at him. “I’m—”

“Katsuki Yuuri.”

A woman with a hefty clipboard appears in one of the hallways that flow into the reception. She’s gorgeous; red hair styled in a bob, clear blue eyes, and she’s dressed in a black suit of sorts. Her blazer flares at the waist and her trousers are tight and cut off mid-calf. It dawns on Yuuri that everyone on the floor is dressed in similar levels of style, and he takes a self-conscious glance at his own ensemble.

He’s starting to regret his decision to reject Calvin Klein.

The receptionist’s eyes widen. “ _Mila_. Sorry. This is—”

“My eight a.m.?” Mila interrupts with a raised eyebrow. “Why didn’t you bring him in? He’s late.”

“I’m so sorry,” the girl flusters.

Yuuri checks the time. It’s only 7:48. Still, he can’t help feeling a little guilty for having this girl get in trouble because of him. He sends her an apologetic look, but she’s resolutely not looking at him and instead sitting upright at attention for the woman called Mila.

“Let’s go, Yuuri.” Mila doesn’t spare the receptionist another glance, just turns around with her stilettos clacking sharply against the marble as she walks off.

Yuuri blinks after her.

“For the love of god, _go_ ,” the receptionist hisses at him, like her job depends on it. He realizes that it probably does.

Yuuri goes.

He hurries after Mila, who’s already two racks down one of the hallways, and catches the end of one of her sentences. “...doesn’t help that it’s admin day so you’re going to have to be on your best behavior, okay?”

Apparently she’d started a conversation while he was still lingering back at the reception. “Um, I’m sorry?”

Mila sighs loudly. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?” She turns around, switches the clipboard over to her other arm. Her eyes soften at his bewildered expression. “Look. Yuuri. I know that you’re here highly recommended from someone up top, but we need someone who can survive here. Do you understand?”

Yuuri nods, wide-eyed.

Her eyes flicker down to his clothes, the bag slung across his body, and she purses her lips. “Well, let’s keep going then.”

And they’re off.

“Victor has—wait, you _do_ know who I’m talking about, right? Victor Nikiforov?” She gives him a hesitant look, glances down at his clothes again.

If he somehow makes it out of this interview with the job, he’s buying himself those jeans, Yuuri decides.

Mila stops walking to cock her hip to one side, still waiting for an answer. “Well?”

“Of course,” Yuuri answers quickly. He wants her to know that he knows what he’s doing, that he’s not a complete unfashionable idiot. He gives his best winning smile. “Who doesn’t?”

“You’d be surprised,” she tells him. She smirks and starts walking again. “My 7:30, for one. She was out of here at 7:32. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Yuuri echoes. If Mila sees the startled, uncomfortable look on his face, she doesn’t mention it. She just keeps talking. And walking. How big is this floor? Yuuri’s not sure anymore how many turns they’ve made down various hallways, and he hopes he won’t have to find his own way out later.

“Victor has two secretaries. I’m the first, and you’re here interviewing to be the second. _Secretary_ is a bit of a formal placeholder for what we do; we’re more glorified personal assistants, really. We’re present for everything, hear everything, remember everything. We’re his eyes, ears, and, sometimes, his alibi,” she says this last part conspiratorially, with a wink over her shoulder.

Yuuri has no idea what that means, and no idea if he should be taking notes. Mila’s talking a mile a minute.

“We work when he works, for as long he works. Sometimes more, but never less. His entire agenda is in our hands. We field his calls. We take his notes for him.”

Yuuri’s not sure if this is the way Mila naturally speaks, quick and succinctly, or if it’s just because she’s given this speech several times. Doubt starts to settle in his mind at this realization. How many people are interviewing for this job? Five? Fifty?

“There’s no pause or rewind, there’s only Victor,” Mila continues. “And he’s the one holding the remote, saying, _‘Keep moving_.’ So what do we do?”

“Uh, we keep moving?” Yuuri says hesitantly. What’s with journalists and using metaphors all of a sudden?

They finally stop at the foyer of a grand corner office at the end of the floor. The marble stops at the threshold, gets replaced with plush white carpet, and everything is still white, but blue hydrangeas cover some of the tables. There are two white desks sitting opposite each other, framing a small walkway that leads into a bright room overlooking an even brighter view of the city.

And Yuuri _knows_. This is Victor’s office.

He forgets to breathe a little. Is he here? No, the office is empty. _Will_ he be here? God, he could walk in at any moment and Yuuri needs to—

“Take a seat.” Mila gestures to one of the white armchairs by the door, and he complies eagerly. He’s going to faint, probably, and he needs to get a grip. Falling unconscious during the interview is decidedly not the way you get the job. He tries to control his heart rate, needs to clear his mind or he fears he’ll forget everything Mila’s just told him.

Mila grabs a chair from behind one of the desks and swivels it over in front of him, taking a seat. She flips through a few pages on her clipboard. “Alright. I do have to say, Yuuri, you’ve got an impressive resumé. Short, but impressive. Editor-in-chief at NYU’s independent student newspaper. An internship at Jetsetter, with glowing recommendations. What brings you _here_?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to reply but she raises a hand.

“I mean, not ‘here’ as in HMC,” she waves a hand at the office around them, “but what brings you to _high fashion_?”

And this question. This question Yuuri had tried to prepare himself for, except he’s not really sure what his answer is. Ditching the Calvin Klein jeans for the sake of his comfort and self-confidence should say it all, really.

Still. He liked fashion well enough, didn’t he? He could recognize clothing brands (the ones you find in most shopping malls, anyway), and he doesn’t think he dresses _too_ badly.

He can’t really think of a good answer to Mila’s question, though. At least, not one that won’t end up embarrassing himself, so he tries for his winning smile again. “What makes you think I’m not interested in fashion?”

Mila snorts at him. “A comedian, huh? Just don’t go saying things like that around Victor.”

“What do you mean?” Yuuri cocks his head to the side. “Victor doesn’t like comedians?”

“Victor doesn’t laugh.” She pauses. “Well, not when you want him to, anyway. Besides, if you make him laugh, that usually means someone else is about to do the opposite of that.”

“The opposite of what?”

“Laughing.”

“Which is?”

Mila arches a perfect eyebrow. “Crying.”

 _Oh_.

Yuuri shivers. He doesn’t want to think that the rumors he’s heard about Victor are true, wants to continue to dwell on his previous fantasies that Victor could end up really liking him and that he might even get this job. But after observing the brisk pace everyone in this office runs on and the careful, pristine condition of everything here, an ugly feeling starts to settle in his stomach and the doubt in his mind digs a little deeper.

A man walks in then, looking every bit as attractive and glamorous as Mila, if not more. Despite the fact that it’s August and New York’s just barely started to cool down for autumn, the man is wearing a lot of layers. His hair is two tones of blonde, fashioned stylishly into an undercut, and the perfect curls that hang over the glasses perched on his nose give him the look that he’s smart and chic.

Yuuri’s a bit taken back at the aura of this man. Thinks back to Mila’s comment questioning his interest in high fashion. He looks around between the three of them, and _ah_.

One of these is not like the rest. It’s like a children’s game, except it’s not wholesome or fun, and this is real life and it’s kind of painful.

“Mila—” the man starts, but he stops short when he catches sight of Yuuri. His brow quirks inquisitively. “What’s this?”

“Victor’s second secretary,” Mila explains. “I’m doing interviews.”

The man frowns. “And here I thought Andre was going to last. How disappointing.”

From the corner of his eyes, Yuuri sees Mila throw him a pointed look. Her words from earlier ring back in his head, _We need someone who can survive here. Do you understand?_

Yuuri gulps, finds the man giving him an appraising look. “I’m Yuuri,” he offers, attempting a confident smile. He’s not sure if it’s working, or if he actually looks every bit the definitely not chic, absolutely awkward bundle of nerves that he feels.

The man looks at him for another lingering moment, then gives a small grin back. “I’m Chris. Creative director. Good luck here,” he tells Yuuri sincerely.

And as fast as the soft expression on Chris’ face appeared, it’s gone, and he’s already looking away, turning to Mila.

“I’m here for the polaroids? I need to make sure Testino didn’t fuck up again before Victor takes a look at them.”

She’s already reaching for a manila envelope on her desk before he’s finished speaking. “And the mockups are already on the iPad in your office,” she tells him.

“You’re the best.” Chris kisses her cheek, tucking the envelope under his elbow.  

Suddenly, a loud ping goes off. Mila fishes a phone out of her back pocket and when she reads whatever’s on the screen, she curses. She’s up in an instant. “Shit. He’s pulling up.”

Chris startles. “He’s not supposed to be in until nine.”

“His hairdresser cancelled,” Mila says through gritted teeth. She makes her way over to her desk, picks up the phone and speaks into it brusquely. “He’s on his way up. No, his driver texted me. What do you mean, ‘why?’ Just _move_. Tell everyone.”

In the next few minutes, a lot of things happen at once, and Yuuri can only observe from where he’s sitting on the armchair. Chris takes to the hallway, claps loudly and calls out, “It’s time to ice the cake, people,” and the words make people freeze for a split second.

And then--motion.

Everyone is suddenly moving _fast_.

The hallway traffic doubles, impossibly, with people removing racks, adding racks, rearranging them. Mila’s in the kitchenette in the corner of the foyer, assembling a cup of coffee and a glass of sparkling water. Through the glass walls, Yuuri sees conference room tables being cleared of clutter, magazines being put away and sketches and color swatches being shoved into folders. People in cubicles are touching up their makeup. Some girls have little dressers under their desk, and they’re stashing away vests and jackets, kicking off their shoes and slipping into heels.

As Yuuri watches the scene unfolding before him, he’s vaguely reminded of a warzone. Except instead of machine guns there are garment bags, and instead of soldiers there are girls in Chanel.

Mila stalks through the walkway leading into the big office— _Victor’s_ office—and sets down a tray of water and snacks, arranges a pile of magazines in a neat flourish next to the computer keyboard.

And then it hits Yuuri.

Victor’s here.

 _Victor’s here_. Pulling up right now.

And everyone’s preparing for his arrival.

Oh, god.

Mila returns, coffee cup in one hand, to pluck her clipboard from the seat with the other. She swivels the chair back behind the desk. “Come on, let’s go. We have to be there when he gets off the elevator.”

‘He’ as in Victor. Right. Victor’s going to get off the elevator and Yuuri’s going to be there. For Victor. Who’s on the elevator right now, probably.

Which will be here soon.

And for which Yuuri will be there for.

Yuuri’s fine—he’s _fine—_ and he’s definitely not feeling light-headed whatsoever.

“Um, my interview—”

“Will continue later, and you’re going to see for yourself how this works,” Mila says sharply. She grabs the shoulder bag on his arm and pulls it off. “I’m sorry, but this is _foul_. Don’t let Victor see it.”

They leave it stashed behind one of the armchair pillows.

 

 

\---

 

 

It’s like a bad made-for-TV movie, where the supervillain’s about to make an appearance and the only reason you can tell is because of the scary, suspenseful music playing in the background. Yuuri thinks he can almost hear it, if he concentrates on imagining hard enough.

Everyone’s on high alert, making sure everything’s in good order. If Yuuri thought the office was pristine before, it’s absolutely immaculate now. And as clutter starts to disappear, Yuuri notices that the people start to disappear, too; they’re all retreating to their desks, shutting down audible conversation and taking to e-mail threads and chat rooms. Soon, it’s only him and Mila standing by the elevators, and the coffee cup in her hand is piping _hot_ ; he can see the steam steadily rising out of the mouth of the lid.

The only other person visible is the receptionist from earlier. She’s concentrating very hard on whatever’s on her computer screen.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open, and Yuuri lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He’s seen Victor plenty of times, of course. Someone like Victor is always splashed across the tabloids, or popping up on social media. Yuuri could always feel the man’s authoritative presence through the two dimensions of a screen, so right now, here _in person—_ Yuuri thinks the wind is going to be knocked out of him by this force of nature of a human being.

A flawless head of silver hair. Eyes hidden being a pair of sunglasses (which Yuuri tries not to feel disappointed about), and his heart-shaped lips are so full and pink and they’re… moving.

He’s _talking_.

“I thought the appointment was confirmed,” Victor is saying in a low, murmuring voice. Yuuri has to strain his ears to hear the words. Victor practically glides over the marble—he looks like he’s ice skating, for Christ’s sake—dressed in a camel brown leather jacket, a cream henley shirt, and black pants. All undoubtedly designer labels. A small part of Yuuri’s mind sighs with relief that he’s not wearing the tight Calvin Kleins, but still. It’s not like it would’ve made a difference.

It’s Victor Nikiforov. Editor-in-chief extraordinaire, fashion and cultural icon, most eligible bachelor in the world. It goes without saying that the man looks attractive in anything.

Yuuri’s lips part slightly at seeing the industry legend in the flesh, watches as Victor walks past him without so much as a glance and stretches out a hand to grab the coffee from Mila.

“I did. I apologize, he must’ve gotten sick overnight,” Mila answers politely. She walks after him, but not before throwing a frustrated look at Yuuri and pinching him, tugging him forward to follow. He does, in a daze.

Victor sighs and sips silently at his cup. “Let me hear it, then.”

Mila flips rapidly through her clipboard. “Right, here’s what’s on the bulletin so far. Celestino called at 6:30. He wants to know what you thought about the samples he couriered over last week. He’s got a few more sketches he emailed over; they’re on your cloud already for you to look through. At 6:43, Yakov called and wanted to make sure you’re ready for the meeting today. He said he needs you to heavily consider their proposal for getting a supervisor on board before the winter quarter comes up.”

Victor makes a noise of disgust at this, but Mila keeps going, and Yuuri’s wondering how the back of someone’s head can look so attractive.

“7:06, Donatella wanted to confirm you’re attending that yacht party she’s having under the Brooklyn Bridge tonight. She’s got a gorgeous suit she wants you to wear for it, but even if you can’t make it she’s sending the suit over anyway. There’s one for Yurio, too. 7:28, the polaroids from Testino arrived. Chris is taking a look at them right now and they’ll be ready for you any minute now.”

They enter Victor’s office and Yuuri tries to make himself look inconspicuous behind Mila as the editor-in-chief hangs up his bag—not Louis Vuitton, Yuuri notes, but a Michael Kors with _VN_ stitched across the side. Victor settles into the seat behind his desk and takes a long sip of coffee before pulling his sunglasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Mila continues, “7:45, Donatella called again because—”

She stops talking and Yuuri realizes it’s because Victor’s holding up a gloved hand. And staring straight at him. “Who’s this?”

Yuuri blinks several times, tries to will away the blush rising in his cheeks. He fails, of course. Typical of his body to betray him during the times that he sorely feels out of control. Mila nudges him. “Um, I’m Yuuri,” he says nervously, wincing as his voice cracks. He clears his throat.

Victor squints at him, eyes roaming over his body. Yuuri’s heart pangs painfully, mourning Calvin Klein.

“Are you the new Andre?” Victor asks.

Mila cuts in, “He’s interviewing for the position. We were just finishing up before you arrived.”

Victor considers this for a moment. Then he turns to Mila, speaks like Yuuri’s not even there. “Let’s roll the calls in five minutes. Yakov first, then Donatella and Celestino. Tell Chris to be here with the polaroids by the time we’re done. I want Otabek, Michele, and Sara for a meeting about the autumn lipsticks campaign right after. Tell them we’ve got to do it all over again—what was that they even sent me last night? Tell them to not just bring more ideas, but actual _good_ ones, _please_. The September issue cannot be kicking our asses this early in the game. We had a _streak_.” He huffs in annoyance, then takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to Yuuri. “Let’s finish your interview for now.”

Mila stops from where she was furiously scribbling notes onto her clipboard. “But Victor—”

“That’s all, Mila.”

The redhead looks terribly confused, and she shoots Yuuri a look he can’t understand. Still, she removes a few sheets of paper from her clipboard and sets them in front of Victor—his profile and resumé, Yuuri realizes—before quickly leaving the room.

Victor’s gaze settles on Yuuri. “Would you like to sit?” He gestures at the chair in front of him.

Yuuri’s still reeling at all the words that left Victor’s mouth in a matter of seconds. He sits silently, doesn’t really trust his voice to speak. He watches Victor scan through his resumé and observes the morning sun shining rays across silver hair. Outside the window is an admittedly gorgeous view of the cityscape, but he’d much rather stare at the man sitting across from him.

When Victor’s eyes look up from the paper to meet his, Yuuri yelps. One end of Victor’s mouth twitches, and Yuuri not sure if more blood is rushing _to_ his face or if all the blood is draining _from_ it.

 _If you make Victor laugh, that usually means someone else is about to do the opposite of that,_ Mila’s voice says in his head.

Oh, god. ‘Someone else’ is him in this situation.

“Something wrong?” Victor’s watching him carefully, a gloved hand cradling his face.

Yuuri squeaks. “No, f-fine. I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Victor repeats. And that’s all. He continues to stare.

“Fine,” Yuuri agrees.

 _Stop saying fine,_ his mind pleads with him.

“Um,” Yuuri says awkwardly, when Victor continues to say nothing. “How about you? How are you?”

 _Nevermind, just stop talking altogether,_ his subconscious begs.

Victor’s mouth twitches again, and Yuuri thinks that his cue to cry is definitely coming up soon.

But instead, Victor lets out a small sigh, and leans back in his chair. He’s almost… _pouting_. “I’m afraid, Yuuri, that I’m not doing as well as you are.”

Yuuri watches Victor’s hands settle across his chest, gloved fingers locking together.

“No one listens to me,” Victor goes on. “They _hear_ me, but they don’t listen. It’s in one ear and out the other with everyone. I say, ‘Put together a beauty campaign.’ And what do I get? Just a campaign. Absolutely no beauty. Isn’t that ridiculous? Is it so hard to pull together some eye-catching spreads around some beauty products? Am I _reaching_ for the stars here?”

Yuuri doesn’t know if this is a rhetorical question, but the awful feeling in his stomach is back in full force now, and he stuffs his hands under his thighs to keep them from shaking.

He doesn’t know why he ever thought Lilia was terrifying, when there’s someone like this, like Victor, who runs hot and cold—engulfs Yuuri with words then freezes him with stares.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

Victor peeks at him. “Yuuri?”

“N-no, um, you’re not,” Yuuri says quickly. “You’re not reaching for the stars.”

“Not really, no,” Victor agrees, nodding to himself. He changes gears, thumbs at the paper in front of him and reaches for his coffee cup. “Tell me about working with Lilia. With Jetsetter. How was that?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, welcoming the familiar topic. “Well, I interned for Lilia, kind of, and—”

“You interned, _kind of,_ ” Victor repeats with an arched eyebrow. He sets his coffee back on the table.  

Yuuri flushes, nodding. “I was originally supposed to be interning under the copy editor, but Lilia, she…” He struggles to find the right words to describe Lilia’s actions. “She had me working with the editors, and let me get involved in a few spreads and… gave me advice.”

“What kind of advice?” Victor’s face is serious now, studying him.

Yuuri swallows. “Um. To have confidence in myself, I guess. To push for bigger things.”

Her words echo back at him. _Don’t you want to push yourself? Don’t you dream of bigger things and better opportunities?_

And Yuuri never really answered her, but it’s yes, of course. Yuuri doesn’t exactly know what he wants in life, and he has a half-empty vision board sitting in his closet as proof of that, but he knows he wants this, journalism. He enjoys it and wants to embrace all the industry has to offer. He’s sort of desperate for this work, this job that can connect his voice to masses of people after all his life he could only ever tie himself to a few individuals at a time.

“Lilia, she’s not so vocal about her thoughts,” Yuuri continues, trying to reconcile with the thoughts running through his mind. “So I’m not sure what she intends for me, or what she thinks of me, really. But I want to be a journalist, someday, or even be someone like you and Lilia. I think I’d learn a lot here, and I know you guys have this… pace, um, that you run on. But I think I could keep up, and that I could even surprise you a little.”

A look flashes on Victor’s face at his last sentence, something fleeting that’s quickly replaced by a blank expression. His eyes pull away, glance back down at Yuuri’s profile. Yuuri fidgets uncomfortably, until Mila knocks on the door frame.

“I’ve got Yakov on the line,” she says, giving them a curious look.

Victor blinks. “Right.” His face changes then, from a blank expression to pursed lips and narrowed eyes, and he leans forward, posture shifting to bend over his computer monitor. “Yuuri, you may go,” he says, not looking at him. He brings the cup of coffee to his lips, reaches over to punch a button on the phone on his desk.

Yuuri’s heart stutters at the dismissal, but doesn’t want Victor to have to repeat himself. He stands shakily and makes his way out the room as a man’s gruff, accented voice barks through the speaker. _“Vitya.”_

 _“_ Good morning, Yakov,” Victor’s voice answers, sounding bored.

Yuuri doesn’t look back at him, just gives Mila a bewildered expression as she hands him his bag back.

“I think,” Mila says slowly. “That means you’re hired.”

Yuuri stares at her. Had she not been in the room with him just now?

“Are you sure?” he asks, unconvinced.

“No,” the redhead admits. “But I don’t think he means to send you away, either.”

And. What the hell is Yuuri supposed to make of that?

“I’ll text you, okay?” Mila says, not unkindly, and leads him back to the elevators.

 

 

\---

 

 

That evening, Yuuri dozes off on Phichit’s shoulder, tipsy from drinking cheap wine on an empty stomach, thanks to his total lack of appetite after the day’s stressful morning.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says drowsily, stretching his arms above his head. “Something’s vibrating.”

“Hmm?” Yuuri nuzzles into the warmth of his friend’s arm.

“Something’s… oh my god, Yuuri, it’s your phone.” Phichit’s alert now, shaking him awake. “You’ve got a message. Check it, check it, check it.”

Yuuri’s eyes shoot open, and he’s lunging for the mobile charging on the wall.

His fingers fly over the number pad to unlock his phone. The alcohol is still settling in his veins, clouding his eyesight a bit. He has to attempt his passcode twice, and he gnaws at his bottom lip. Taps repeatedly on Messages until the app gets over its lag and pulls up, presenting him with two unread blue bubbles.  

**It’s Mila. You start Wednesday. Check your e-mail for the contract and fill it out right away. You’ll be wired a starting cut of your pay, too.**

The second message says,

**So for the love of god, take yourself shopping.**

Yuuri stops breathing.

“Yuuri, what does it say?” Phichit crowds in, leaning over the screen. “Let me see!”

Phichit gasps as another message comes in.

“Yuuri!”

**Here’s Victor’s number. Save it to your contacts.**

And Yuuri had just started remembering how to breathe again, but at the arrival of this new information, his brain short-circuits. The digits on his screen blur slightly, but they’re.

They’re there. Real.

He can’t even say anything as Phichit squeals and says, “Yuuri, you don’t mind if I save it, too, do you?”

Yuuri falls back on the floor, arms spread eagle.

“After all, as your emergency contact, I need to have a way to contact your boss,” Phichit continues, although he already has his phone out, recording the numbers on Yuuri’s screen. “You know, just in case of emergencies. They happen more than you think.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri whispers. “How much did we drink? Was it a lot?”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Phichit coos. He holds out a hand. “Let’s go.”

Yuuri looks up at his friend. “Where are we going?”

“Your closet. We need to start a ‘to burn’ pile. No offense, but you’re Victor Nikiforov’s new secretary now, so that means you can’t disrespect him by wearing five-seasons-old clothing from the Gap.”

Yuuri allows himself to be pulled to his feet, and suddenly remembers something. “I need to go to Calvin Klein tomorrow,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> among the many google searches i had to do for this fic:
> 
> “where in new york city do people throw amazing yacht parties”  
> “what do you call that one shirt that’s soft and has buttons and there’s no collar”  
> “ok what do you call that one shirt that’s not a polo but it has buttons”  
> “MENS SHIRTS…. WHAT ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF MENS SHIRTS”  
> “what’s another word for white”


	2. House of Hermès

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, thank you sooooo much to everyone who’s left kudos and comments or sent me lovely messages on tumblr!! i can’t believe??? real people are reading this? don't mind me i'm just screaming into the abyss haha but wow i love all of you ok wtheck. i also wanna give a special shoutout out to [actualyuuri](https://actualyuuri.tumblr.com/) and [thehobbem](https://thehobbem.tumblr.com/) for their words of encouragement!! xoxoxox (i usually type that ironically but i'm dead srs rn)
> 
> second of all, happy paris fashion week! obviously i waited out the update this long just so that i could tell u that
> 
> third of all, things that may interest you:  
> \- [someone asked what the jeans(tm) look like](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/156830442481/what-do-these-jeans-even-look-like)  
> \- someone else wanted [victor's reaction to seeing yuuri in the jeans.](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/156728738961/i-cant-wait-for-viktor-to-see-yuuri-in-the-calvin) perhaps read this after you've finished the chapter. perhaps this is kic canon and perhaps it is not.  
> \- [valentine’s day drabble](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/157301287206/boyfriends-in-couture) that is definitely *not* kic canon; this takes place in kic universe 2.0 basically, so it's not necessary at all to read for this fic! was just havin some fun. was just doin it for the lols  
> \- this amazing [HM Couture magazine edit](http://nicaforov.tumblr.com/post/157599005804/brought-to-you-by-kings-in-couture-by-slightlied) that the lovely [nicaforov](http://nicaforov.tumblr.com/) made, and from which i drew article inspiration from!! (srsly i screamed looking at this)  
> \- this equally amazing [art of yuuri wearing the jeans](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/157759838996/get-the-yuuri-katsuki-look-shirt-na-pants) from [actualyuuri-draws](https://actualyuur-draws.tumblr.com). (i screamed looking at this too lmao)  
> \- this [awesome meme](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/157884239486/taps-mic-is-this-thing-still-on-hello-its) from [emerald-imperial](https://emerald-imperial.tumblr.com/) that will blow ur mind  
> \- and lastly, the [kings in couture story tag](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/tagged/kic-fic) on my tumblr. i answer fic questions, sometimes i post previews, and generally share cool kic-related yoi things 
> 
> please let me know what you think! <3

**WELCOME TO HMCOUTURE.COM**

**43 Ways Form-Fitting Jeans are Health & Safety Hazards** _by Seung-Gil Lee_

It’s not a problem we ever think about, but it’s a rising issue. The casualties of denim are often lost on the masses, so as your trusty health and fitness columnist, I’ve taken it upon myself to warn the world of the very real ways your jeans may be harmful to you and those around you—and yes, I’m completely serious. (When am I ever not serious?) Why, just a few hours ago a newcomer to the HMC headquarters wreaked absolute havoc when he strolled in wearing the latest Calvin Klein sculpted blue rinse jeans… _[Read more]_

642 comments • 1.3k shares 

 

 

—

 

 

Yuuri’s not expecting that working at HM Couture as Victor Nikiforov’s secretary will be a seamless transition for him. He knows he’s not going to suddenly be pristine and poised and throwing back a shot of espresso an hour. 

But that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t _try._

He’s got less than a day to transform from Yuuri Katsuki: former intern at Jetsetter, to Yuuri Katsuki: secretary to Victor Nikiforov. He easily constructs the images of the two Yuuris in his mind and the secretary looks at the intern with a tinge of distaste. Looks down at _him_ with a similar expression. 

He has a lot of work to do, obviously; he’s glad that his subconscious is at least aware of this fact. There may actually be a part of him capable of embracing the world of J. Crew and Givenchy. 

So he goes out and buys the jeans. Nods casually at the cashier, like he does this regularly, this thing where he goes out to fancy designer label stores and buys the tightest clothing known to mankind. The cashier doesn’t even look at him. 

As his purchase is scanned, Yuuri drums his fingers on the countertop and wonders if he could have possibly gained weight since he tried the jeans on the last time. He doesn’t want to try them on again, partly because the mortification might come back tenfold, and that would scare him into chickening out and ditching the jeans altogether. 

Still, if the alcohol last night and the stress eating from the past week have somehow made him gain back the fat he thought he’d lost from running errands at Jetsetter… He doesn’t want the added embarrassment of having to come back here. 

Yuuri bites his lip and blurts out, “Sorry, wait. Can I get another one of those in the next size?” 

The cashier sighs and wordlessly picks off a pair of jeans from the rack behind her. 

“Thanks,” Yuuri says. He offers a grateful smile, although she still isn’t looking at him. Her sharp eyes are trained on the screen in front of her. She’s dressed head-to-toe in Calvin Klein, and Yuuri’s not sure if the hard grimace on her face complements or diminishes her polished appearance. 

Complements it. Definitely. She would fit right in at HM Couture, actually. 

“$195.73,” she tells him.

Yuuri freezes while reaching for his wallet. “Sorry?”

No way. It’s two pairs of jeans. 

The cashier looks at him then. “Your total. It’s $195.73,” she repeats flatly. It’s only noon and she looks like she’s already having the worst day. “Is that debit or credit?” 

It’s two pairs of _designer_ jeans, he has to remind himself. He tries not to cringe outwardly when he hands over his card. 

“Credit,” he answers. 

This is fine. It’s fine. The jeans are nearly a hundred bucks but they’ll make you feel like you’re worth a million, Yuuri tries to tell himself. He leaves the store with an air of artificial nonchalance and the decision not to check his bank account for awhile.

 

 

— 

 

 

He puts them on when he gets home, and the smaller size fits him, thank god. He grins triumphantly as he stares at himself in the mirror, shirtless and sporting messy hair with a pair of glasses sitting crookedly on his nose. 

Yuuri puts a finger to his chin and hums. “I wonder…” 

He takes his glasses off experimentally and pushes his fringe back with his fingers, taking a deep breath before daring to look up again. 

He gawks at his reflection. It’s… he doesn’t look bad, actually. But he’s also, not. He’s not sure if he feels comfortable, and he licks his lips in a nervous gesture. The action gets mirrored in the reflection, and comes off almost sensual, though, _somehow,_ and it’s _worse._ He stares at himself as if from outside of this physical realm, at the blush now dusting his cheeks and the teeth digging into his bottom lip. He’s not anything like Mila or Christophe or HM Couture or that Calvin Klein girl. Not at all. In fact, it’s—

“Too much too soon,” Yuuri mutters, quickly stuffing his glasses back on and tugging his hair back to its original messy state. “Baby steps, Yuuri.” 

He eyes the other pair of jeans in the bag. He could return it now and get back the ninety dollars, but… in a split-second decision, he stashes it under his desk and makes a mental note to check back on it before the thirty-day return policy expires. 

The contract itself is hard evidence that this is actually happening. Yuuri can’t stop looking at it, lying back on his bed with his phone close to his face, zooming in on the bottom line he’d signed electronically while half-drunk in the middle of the night. There’s another signature, too, right above his. The sharp contrast between its elegant script and his own simple scrawl is enough to jerk him into reality. 

Or rather, it’s a beep from his phone that jostles him into reality. 

Yuuri squints at the banner that enters the top of his screen. The notification tells him it’s a text from a number he still hasn’t had the nerve to save to his contacts. His heart stops in the two seconds it takes him to pull up the message. 

There’s no preface, just straightforward instructions: 

**pick up scarves from hermès. make sure theyre only in azure n cerise.**

And then, Yuuri sees the typing bubble flash again; a message hastily being sent out like it was an afterthought. 

**see u in the morning. vn**

Yuuri nearly drops his phone onto his face. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes. He quickly tosses the phone to the corner of his bed and keeps his distance, like it’s one of those crazy expensive clothes hanging off the HM Couture racks. 

No more messages come in, but Yuuri stares at the two on the screen for awhile. He stares until the screen dims and the phone locks. He’s not sure how much time has passed—doesn’t dare to touch his phone to check—but he’s still staring when he hears the front door of the apartment open. 

Phichit’s voice calls out, “Hey, do I need to stop by the store to get milk later or do you think we can squeeze out at least two more mornings of cereal breakfast from what we have now?” 

The sound of his friend kicking off his shoes and dumping his bag on the floor fills the silence. 

“Yuuri?” He hears his friend shuffling down the hallway. “Are you home or—oh. There you are.” 

He looks up to see Phichit leaning against the doorway, his work tie hanging loosely around his neck. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, delighted, whistling appreciatively. “You look hot.” 

Yuuri startles and looks down, remembering he’s still shirtless and wearing the new jeans. He grabs a t-shirt off the floor and slips it on, ignores the sound of disappointment that Phichit makes. “I think the milk’s good. How was work?” he asks, trying for nonchalance. 

Should he show Phichit? His friend might make it worse. He might do something disastrous like make Yuuri text back, or something. 

Phichit waves a hand. “Preparing for the September issue. Shifting our focus away from family vacations now that summer’s ending. Jenny brought her goldfish to work,” he adds. “Remember Jenny? She’s hilarious.” 

“I’ve only been out for a little over a week, Phi.” Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Of course I still remember everyone.” He leans back and attempts a casual position, shifting weight onto his arm. 

Wait, _should_ he text back? Does he actually need to? The rules of social etiquette between a boss and his secretary are currently absolutely lost on him. He should look that up, actually. How often is Victor going to be texting him now? He can’t be having an anxiety attack every time it happens. 

God, what if Victor _calls_ him? Phichit surely wouldn’t miss that. It also occurs to him that, as with all things that happen in his life, Phichit would find out eventually, anyway. Especially if he’s getting texts from not-so-mysterious numbers on his phone, which Phichit is constantly digging through. 

His friend is nosy, probably, and doesn’t have a sense of privacy—a realization that actually has _not_ been lost on Yuuri. No, it’s something he has been distinctly aware of in their five years of friendship. 

“But look at you now, wearing designer denim. It’s like you’re a different person,” Phichit is telling him, wiping away tears that aren’t there, oblivious to the turmoil wracking his mind. He moves to join Yuuri on the bed, crosses his legs and points to the open magazine and the laptop screen in front of him. “What’s all this? Oh my god. Are you _studying?”_

Yuuri flushes. The effort to turn into ‘Yuuri Katsuki: secretary to Victor Nikiforov’ had swung into high gear. He should, after all, know about the publication that his boss executively runs. He had bought the latest HM Couture issue at a street stand on the way home, and pulled up the Wikipedia page of the history of the magazine shortly after donning on the jeans. 

So far, he’s still been too scared to read the daunting section titled, “2014-present: Victor Nikiforov leadership.” He already has a general gist of the amazing feats Victor has accomplished since taking over HM Couture, the hand he’s had in actually stitching together the fabric of contemporary culture. It’s almost surreal to realize that the man they’re writing about on the laptop screen is the same one who’s just left him texts on his _phone_ screen, and that he’s to start work for him the next day. 

“I felt like I should prepare. You should see these people… I’m a little out of my element.” An understatement, Yuuri thinks. 

Phichit looks confused. “Won’t you just answer calls all day?” 

“Not exactly,” Yuuri says slowly. “I have to run errands and stuff, too, like…” He stops. Exhaling, he decides to throw caution to the wind and finally, finally grabs his phone to show Phichit the messages. “Look.” He holds his breath as his friend quickly scans them. 

“Wait. ‘VN’? _VN? V freakin’ N?_ Is this…? Oh my god, he texted you?” Phichit’s voice gets higher with every question. He smacks Yuuri’s arm. “You should’ve started with this, you dolt.” 

Yuuri makes a face and rubs at his skin. “Hey.” 

Phichit ignores him, nearly vibrating on the bed next to him. “What’s azure and cerise?” he asks, peering down at the screen again.

“I think they’re colors,” Yuuri answers. His hands fly up to his face. “I don’t even know colors. I have to know _colors_ for this job.” 

On the spectrum of occupational hazards, this is not so terrible, Yuuri recognizes. It’s a considerably terrifying, troubling concept nonetheless. 

“Yeah, and materials, too, I bet,” Phichit supplies unhelpfully. “And brands and their designers and other important people who handle the magazine.”

Yuuri drops his hands into his lap and looks at him, horrified. He could get dizzy just thinking about the bulk of information he doesn’t know, much less has a grasp on. “Oh my god, I’m going to get fired.” 

Phichit frowns. “Now wait—“

“I’m going to get so fired. I’m going to end up on here,” he points at the Wikipedia page, “for being fired from HMC in record time, and next week someone else is going to walk in for an interview and Victor’s going to ask them, ‘Are you the new Yuuri?’ Oh my god.”

Phichit gives a small smile at that, which Yuuri doesn’t appreciate. This is a serious matter. “Aw, Yuuri, at least you’re giving yourself a week! I’m glad.” He throws an arm around him. “Listen, you’re fine. Isn’t this the exact same thing that happened with Jetsetter? And you went ahead and picked up those books on culture and heritage and learned geography and everything? And you got it sorted. You’re fine, okay? You’re fine.” 

Yuuri groans defeatedly. “Those are _places._ And this is…” 

This is Victor Nikiforov and haute couture. It’s a travel destination he did not think he was ever going to be booking a ticket for. It’s a pair of jeans he didn’t think he was ever going to buy. 

Using metaphors that barely make sense has rubbed off on him, it seems.

“Do we need to break out the books?” Phichit asks, grinning. 

Yuuri looks up and glares. “Stop. No. I don’t need those self-help books.” 

“Because they’re corny?”

“Because they don’t _work.”_

Phichit frowns again. “Arguable. They worked on me!” 

Yuuri doesn’t know how to tell Phichit that his outgoing, hardworking personality hardly needs those books in the first place.

“I’m breaking out the books,” Phichit says firmly, and Yuuri groans. He reaches out uselessly as his friend moves to get off the bed. “Which will it be? Dale Carnegie? Francis Cole Jones?” 

“ _Neither,_ Phichit.” 

Before he crosses out the door, Phichit stops and _Yes,_ Yuuri thinks. Perhaps his friend is cutting him some slack. “Wait. Have you texted back yet?” 

Yuuri’s face drops. Perhaps not, then, although he should have known this was coming. Phichit snatches his phone from his hand, and he gives it up easily. “Do I really have to text back?” 

“You’re going to leave Victor Nikiforov on read?” Phichit says incredulously. His fingers fly across the keypad easily, unlocking the phone. “You _are_ a dolt.” 

It takes them a whole hour to settle what he’ll write back. Yuuri wants to think that he actually has a say in the matter. 

“I am _not._ I am definitely not sending him an emoji,” Yuuri insists repeatedly. 

In the end, he gives that up easily too. Yuuri is weak to his friend’s whims, and Phichit looks entirely too satisfied to be typing out **_Got it. See you_** with two thumbs up emojis. The message is sent out with a final _whoosh_ that echoes back in Yuuri’s mind for the rest of the night. 

He doesn't notice that _‘Read’_ appears immediately. 

 

 

—

 

 

_History Maker Couture_ (magazine)  
from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

**HISTORY | 2014-present: Victor Nikiforov leadership** [edit]

Victor Nikiforov became editor-in-chief of American _History Maker Couture_ in July 2014. Noted for his trademark silver hair and sunglasses, Nikiforov sought to revitalize the brand by making it younger and more approachable. To achieve that, he handpicked a team of remarkably young editors for the publication and garnered criticism in doing so. Nikiforov himself was only twenty-five years old at the time that he took leadership, although his career credits at that point are more decorated than that of many board members of the Feltsman Media Group today.

He has been known to take great risks in his work, most notably for the 916-page issue that the magazine delivered in September 2015, which focused on a Lilac Fairytale-themed spread and subsequently earned Nikiforov the year’s Grand Prix Fashion Journalism Award from the Council of Fashion Designers of America. He won the award again in 2016. A nomination bid for the 2017 Awards has recently been submitted.

Nikiforov’s influence has allowed the magazine to maintain its high circulation, while his staff has also discovered new trends that follow his vision of reaching broader audiences in a manner that makes haute couture more easily accessible. Hisashi Morooka from _The New York Times_ writes _,_ “Nikiforov is able to achieve a balance that vogue editorships of the past and present have only been able to dream of: he readily creates attainable modes of fashion while still maintaining the necessary veneer of scarcity that keeps luxury brands chic and relevant.”

In the 2016 documentary _Gilded in Gold_ about the year’s Met Gala—in which Nikiforov himself was featured in due to his position as the event’s committee chair—Josef Karpisek, fashion and style editor for Swiss _Bolero,_ says in an interview that the covers of fashion magazines as of late “own a quality that is quintessential Nikiforov. One can pick up any fashion publication at a standthese days and it has that _je ne sais quoi._ The model is always in subtle attire but the attitude of the whole thing, it’s just remarkable. It’s young, but sophisticated. Vulnerable, but edgy. The issues fly off the shelves like that, and who created that template? Victor.” He continues, “Even so, the papers cannot hope to catch up to _HM Couture._ We can imitate them, yes, but they will always set the standard. It’s only a matter of time before they change the rules of the game again.” It is important to note, however, that critics of Nikiforov and _HM Couture_ argue that it cannot hope to hold on to its titular position as the leading fashion publication for long. This is supported by recent statistics that although readership of the magazine has continued to increase, the marginal rate has started to narrow. 

Nikiforov continues to be American _HM Couture’s_ editor-in-chief to this day.

**CONTINUE TO STYLE AND INFLUENCE >>>**

 

 

—

 

 

In hindsight, Yuuri had had it easy when he came to work at Jetsetter. There was a welcome orientation from HR and pamphlets breaking down what was expected of him and overall his errands were small, but important—as important as it is to keep writers fueled with their necessary dose of caffeine, anyway. Even when he started to engage with editors and pitch ideas at meetings, even when his anxiety would never completely leave him each time he did so, he was able to fall into the rhythm of things easily. 

HM Couture, in its branding and overall aesthetic, is immaculate. Yuuri knows this; saw this from the very moment he stepped one foot out of the elevator on Monday. It doesn’t mean he isn’t caught off-guard by it again, though, when he arrives Wednesday morning. 

It also doesn’t mean he gets used to the fact that HM Couture, despite its pristine disposition, is a whirlwind. There’s no welcome committee, or pamphlets, or post-its from his best friend with words of encouragement written on them. 

(Wait, no. He does have that, in the packed lunch that Phichit had made for him.) 

Still, the only thing that HM Couture offers him when the elevator doors slide open is Mila, looking flawless at seven in the morning and clutching her trademark clipboard. 

“I thought I told you to go shopping,” Mila tells him with a small frown.

He swallows self-consciously. “I did go shopping,” he says. He tries to offer the receptionist a smile as they pass by her little island. She doesn’t spare him a look, and Yuuri sighs internally. Is it a fashion thing to not make eye contact or smile at other people? 

The clack of stilettos hitting marble doesn’t stop as Mila looks over her shoulder to assess Yuuri’s outfit. He’s wearing the jeans, a white dress shirt and a taupe blazer. 

_Taupe._ Yuuri gets to throw words like this around now. After an excruciating hour of Phichit reciting a chapter off one of his self-help books, he had spent the rest of last night heavily brushing up on the color wheel: his blazer is taupe not “light brown,” and the blouse Mila’s wearing is seashell not “off-white.” His eyes continue to wander at the clothes around them, on the people and on the racks, cataloging the different colors. The entire office is one huge set of flashcards right now.

He puffs up with pride, a little, as he recognizes a girl wearing mauve.

“Buying one pair of jeans isn’t going shopping, Yuuri.” Mila shakes her head at him and tightens the grip on her clipboard. 

Yuuri deflates. 

They continue to make their way down the different hallways. Yuuri peers at the other people in the office. He doesn’t think he stands out too much. Not as much as last time, anyway.He narrowly misses crashing into one of the stray clothing racks as he tries to protest, “Well, how do you know I didn’t just buy the—”

She turns around to raise his eyebrows at him. 

“Okay, yeah, you would know,” he says grudgingly. 

He doesn’t know if he imagines it, but he sees her smile a little. 

 

 

—

 

 

Because there’s no study guide to working at HM Couture or to being Victor Nikiforov’s new secretary, Yuuri has to make one for himself, and it starts with getting his own clipboard. 

“Look, I got you a present,” Mila chirps when they enter their office. Yuuri steals a look into Victor’s personal one. 

Empty. 

“Well, actually, Victor got you a present,” Mila corrects herself. She waves a hand. “He’s got a whole office supply closet of this stuff. He said to pick this one for you. It’s cute, no?” 

A storage clipboard sits on what he assumes is his desk. It’s similar to Mila’s; super hefty, outfitted with a legal pad and storing a small collection of post-its and pens inside. But whereas Mila’s clipboard is sleek white with a single black stripe across the top, his is jet black with crystal accents. It’s remarkably trendy, as far as storage clipboards go. Yuuri’s sort of expecting a designer brand to be stamped on it somewhere. 

He’s not sure how to grapple with the fact that even their office supplies are housed in different styles and designs, although it does make sense, in a way. Right outside the glass walls are fashionably-dressed people dashing between rooms and racks of clothing, and he remembers how easily they can organize themselves into formation, like soldiers in combat. Yuuri realizes he’s going to turn into a soldier in Chanel himself. He takes the clipboard into his hands and holds it carefully against his chest as if holding militant gear. He tries not to feel self-conscious over the fact that the clipboard possibly looks more well-dressed than his entire wardrobe. 

“I thought I told you that was foul,” says Mila. She’s looking at the bag on his shoulder with displeasure. 

“It’s the only bag I own,” Yuuri replies apologetically.

Mila sighs. “Oh, Yuuri. _Shopping_. You’re going to go properly shopping, okay?”

And Yuuri picks up a pen and writes neatly into the first line of the legal pad, **_Find out what ‘properly shopping’ means._** He pauses before adding, **_Look for new bag… or ditch bag altogether?_**

He needs to go to Hermès to pick up the scarves before Victor arrives, and that, in itself, comes with its own host of notes. 

Mila gives him an address and instructs, “When you get there, ask for Emily. If it’s that Sabrina girl who helps you, Victor’s going to know. He has a sixth sense for incompetence.”

Yuuri nods and scribbles, **_Hermès—Emily. No Sab (what she do??)_**

“Make sure you check the colors. If one of them’s even a shade away from azure or cerise..." Yuuri looks up when she trails off, sees her shudder slightly. "Listen, just check the colors, okay?” 

His pen flies across the paper. **_Colorscolorscolors. Don’t die, or worse—get fired._**

“Pick up some coffee on the way here. Wednesday is Coffee Bean day. Get the white chocolate latte with an extra shot of espresso. And Victor likes all of his drinks searing hot. And I mean, hot.” 

**_Wed = Coffee Bean._** He underlines this twice. Then, **_White choco +1 shot. Hot!!!!_** He draws a little flame to really emphasize the point ** _._**

“Once you get back here, leave the scarves with Michele at Accessories. Then you go straight here and give Victor his coffee, and then you man the phone.” 

**_Scarves 2 Mich at Acc. Coffee 2 Victor. Yuuri 2 phone._ **

He also creates a small table in the corner of the page. 

****_**Michele - Accessories**_  
_**Christophe - Creative Dir**_  
_**Mila + Yuuri - Sec**_

It’s unnecessary, probably, to have included himself and Mila on the roster but it satisfies him for an unknown reason. 

“There’s a run-through at noon. You go there with Victor and you take meeting notes.”

**_12pm run through  
Side note: what’s a run through? _ **

“Victor’s brother Yurio is going to stop by at three with Makkachin, and—”

Yuuri looks up. “Makkachin?”

“Victor’s dog.”

“Victor’s dog?” Yuuri should probably stop repeating her words into questions. 

“Victor likes to spend some time with him in the middle of the day to destress,” Mila explains patiently. She seems to be dusting imaginary dirt off a framed picture of the Eiffel Tower. 

Yuuri wants to dwell on this revelation that Victor has a dog, and that he apparently is human and suffers from stress, but he jots the note down quickly. 

**_3pm makkachin (dog) + yurio (brother) = no stress_ **

“Shit.” 

**_Sh—_ **

It takes Yuuri a split second to realize that she’s not giving instructions anymore. “You have to go. There’s a town car waiting for you at the curb. Oh, and here.” She produces a key card from her clipboard and hurriedly hands it to him. “This is your own, so don’t lose it.” 

“Thanks, Mila,” he says, moving to gather his things. He's doing this.

_He's doing this. His first big errand. His first step transforming into Yuuri Katsuki: secretary to Vic—_

“Leave it,” she responds sharply, and his bag drops back to the floor.

 

 

—

 

 

**[HMCOUTURE SLACK CHANNEL: #editors_random]**

**sarac** : take a look at the new guy?

**georgip:** fresh meat? 

**guanghongj:** aw we’re not gonna do this

**emiln:** the tightest jeans i’ve ever seen… i think it's calvin klein? 

**sarac** : right?? chris needs to watch out 

**georgip:** oooh 

**georgip:** can confirm—it's calvin klein

**georgip:** so again, this still applies: fresh meat? ;-)

**seunggill:** gross. don’t be crass 

**leodi** : he seems nice

**guanghongj:** speaking of meat, how’s that vegan diet going for you, sg? 

**seunggill:** i love it, it’s so good for you

**guanghongj:** oh wait, really? 

**seunggill:** no i hate it so much. worst fad ever

**guanghongj:** so the next corporate lunch is at mcdonald’s? 

**seunggill:** UM, are you joking me rn? 

**leodi** : oh guang hong, you’re so cute 

**guanghongj:** what. what did i do 

**jeanjacquesl** : why do you guys always clutter this channel w gossip 

**michelec** : as opposed to cluttering this channel w selfies?

**sarac** : don’t listen to him, you have such a Look rn. i’m living 

**jeanjacquesl** : you’re my favorite crispino

**michelec** : i’m revoking your closet privileges 

**jeanjacquesl** : whoa wait what. wait no 

**emiln:** so what are we doing with new guy?

**milab** : sorry, new guy is *not* an editor. new guy is new andre 

**emiln** : omg 

**georgip:** she speaks!!! 

**emiln:** sometimes i forget that mila's in this channel

**sarac** : mila’s in every channel 

**jeanjacquesl** : yeah again i have to say that that should be against the rules

**leodi** : new guy has a name?

**milab** : yuuri 

**milab** : i’m in every channel so that victor doesn’t have to be

**jeanjacquesl** : oh right

**jeanjacquesl** : yeah okay

**emiln:** that would be… not good 

**michelec:** who swiped the new tom ford monks from the closet?? i definitely remember calling dibs?? i will find you

**guanghongj** : spotted chris with them

**michelec:** …fine

**georgip:** i still say we do something fun w new guy

**leodi** : it *has* been a while…

**sarac** : someone pull up the doc?

**emiln shared this file: Welcome to HMCouture.docx**

**milab** : i’m still in this channel, just so you guys know 

**georgip:** and you’re not gonna say a word!! 

**georgip:** right? 

**georgip:** sara, can you ask mila not to say a word? 

**georgip:** ladies. please

 

 

—

 

 

The giggling is starting to unnerve him. 

“Sorry, do you know where I can find Michele?” Yuuri asks a girl idly pushing along a rack. She glances at him, gives him a once over before eyeing the boxes of scarves in one of his arms and the cup of coffee in his other hand. Her face seems to light up with recognition.

Then she giggles and points. “East wing of the floor.” 

“Thanks,” he tells her, and walks quickly in the direction she’d pointed. His face must be fire engine red about now—a side effect of a strange morning.

Emily from Hermès had giggled at him when handing over the scarves.The barista at Coffee Bean had chuckled under his breath. Yuuri’s sure that if the town car driver were possibly thirty years younger and had better vision, he’d have squinted at Yuuri through the rearview mirror and laughed, too. 

And now random office girl. Random office girls and boys, _plural,_ because he doesn’t miss the way that passing people give him looks and bite back smiles. 

The thing is, is that Yuuri’s not sure what’s so funny. 

He turns a corner and finds himself in a huge room where all the clothing racks at HMC seem to be moving in and out of. There are rows and rows of them here, arranged in a way he doesn’t understand. There seems to a group of people dedicated solely to the management of the clothes; hangers are being rearranged, outfits are being donned over plastic mannequins, polaroids are being snapped. The walls are lined with shelves of shoes, hats, scarves, jewelry stands, and there’s a team working on them, too; he spies someone frantically recording inventory of all the accessories. This must be the most colorful room in the whole floor. It’s full to capacity of different materials and despite the busy activity, he gets the impression that everything still seems to be organized and in their rightful place. 

“Are those for me?” 

A man with short brown hair and tan skin emerges from behind one of the racks. He’s dressed simply in a white t-shirt and black jeans, although at this point Yuuri knows they probably cost an arm and a leg each. 

“Hi, yeah,” he greets him. “Are you Michele?”

“And you must be Yuuri,” says Michele. He takes the boxes from Yuuri and sets them on a white table in the center of the room. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room devoid of color and clutter. He seems to hesitate before adding, “Word travels fast around here.”

Yuuri feels confused before realization dawns on him and he nods understandingly. “Because I’m Victor’s new secretary.” 

Michele glances up at him from where he’s started to take the scarves out of their packaging. “Something like that.” His mouth twitches. 

Yuuri frowns. “I wish people would stop doing that.” 

“Doing what?” Michele is full-on smiling now. 

“Laughing at me.” 

Michele actually barks out a laugh at that. 

“See? Like that,” Yuuri points out. He shifts uncomfortably, can feel the fire engine red returning to his face—although he’s not sure if it ever really left it in the first place. 

“I’m so sorry.” Michele sounds like he actually means it, and offers Yuuri a kind smile. “Trust me, we’re not making fun of you or anything. You’re actually a huge hit.” He winks. 

Yuuri has no idea what that means.

 

 

—

 

 

When Yuuri arrives at Victor’s office, it’s to the sight of Chris sitting opposite the editor-in-chief in his private room. They’re extremely well-dressed, of course, and as Yuuri gazes at them through the glass partition he has to remind himself that they’re actually working, that this is their _actual job_ and they aren’t just models posing for a shoot. There are polaroids on the table between them, which they seem to be having a heated discussion over. There’s an awful lot of reshuffling and post-its being flung around. 

Victor’s eyes find him when he crosses the threshold, walking from hard marble to soft carpet. His blue gaze pierces through the glass door that separates his room and the secretaries’ foyer. Then, his attention is flickering back to the polaroids so quickly that Yuuri’s not sure if it even happened. Proof only comes in the way that Chris turns his head around curiously, face lighting up when he sees Yuuri. Victor says something, though, and Chris is turning back around to get to work. 

Yuuri gulps, not sure what to do with the cup of coffee in his hand. Mila’s nowhere to be found. She had told him to give it to Victor, but she hadn’t told him what to do if Victor was preoccupied in a meeting. He decides to hang back and wait, and he sits down at his desk. He could use this time to familiarize himself with it. 

He’s in the middle of trying to figure out the password to the computer when the glass door swings open a few minutes later. Chris walks into the foyer with a small pout on his lips, but he brightens up considerably as he approaches Yuuri’s desk. 

“I’m glad it worked out for you,” he says in greeting.

“Thank you.” Yuuri looks up and smiles. “Is he… is he still busy?” He gestures at Victor’s door. 

Chris glances over his shoulder and bites his bottom lip. “I’m sure you can go on in.” He pauses, opening his mouth then closing it. Then, “Yeah… should be fine.” He nods, although it seems like it’s more to himself than at Yuuri.

Yuuri gives Victor a hesitant glance. He’s leaning back in his chair, holding a finger to his lips and staring at something on his computer screen. “Er…” 

Chris only flashes an encouraging smile at him and taps at the watch on his wrist. “I’ve got to go, Yuuri, but I’ll see you at the run-through later. Good luck.” 

Yuuri’s confused. _Good luck?_

But then he’s gone. 

And Mila’s gone.

And it’s just him with Victor only a few feet away. 

He remembers the coffee he has to deliver and wills his legs to move. When he knocks on the glass, Victor makes a gesture for him to come in without looking up from his work. He’s back to looking thoughtfully at the polaroids laid out on his desk. They feature lots of models wearing different outfits, and some are just of the model’s faces, eyes closed and done up in different looks. The rest of the polaroids seem to be pictures of completely random things, like a bicycle, a group of plants, a construction bridge. They cover every inch of the table’s surface.

“Um…” Yuuri is left to clutch at the steaming cup, not sure where he can put it down. “Coffee?” 

Victor glances up at him then. “Oh. Yuuri.” Just like he did on Monday, he eyes Yuuri’s clothes, and Yuuri has to resist the urge to shuffle his feet. A look passes through Victor’s face, one that Yuuri can’t understand, and when blue eyes return to his brown ones Yuuri can’t help but feel like he must have messed up somehow. 

Clearly it’s going to take more than a pair of Calvin Kleins to save him.

Victor holds out a hand, and Yuuri gives him the cup, careful not to let their fingers brush; any physical contact would undoubtedly cause him to tip over the drink and ruin everything. Victor looks at him oddly before taking a sip, and Yuuri wonders how he doesn’t flinch from burning his tongue. He knows that cup has been in his hand for awhile, but it’s still piping hot. “Do you know where Mila is? I need some notes taken. This is going to the run-through later.” Victor gestures at the polaroids. 

“Um.” Yuuri blinks. He looks around helplessly, as if it’ll make her appear. He shakes his head. “Sorry, I don’t know.” 

Victor frowns, then, and raises his left hand to peer at the wristwatch that rests there. Tiny white diamonds encrusted in the watch’s face glint in the natural sunlight that filters through the window. “She’s not back yet?” 

Yuuri has no idea where’s she even supposed to be coming back from.

He also has no idea what compels him to say what he says next, although it’s probably got a lot to do with the unhappy-looking executive sitting before him coupled with the inherent desire to please Victor Nikiforov that he’s sure everyone’s born with: 

“I can do it. Take your notes.” 

Victor looks pained at this suggestion, as if it’s an idea he’s considered but thought he’d never have to resort to. Yuuri himself feels pained watching this grim expression take over Victor’s face. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, then. Maybe Victor already knows Yuuri probably takes ugly notes and he needs this to be handled by a real professional, like Mila. Maybe Yuuri should never take notes again. He’s about to open his mouth to apologize and offer this proposal when Victor reluctantly says, “Okay.”

“I’m so so—“ Yuuri stops. “Okay?” 

Victor nods awkwardly and clears his throat, eyes not meeting his. 

Yuuri nods too, even though Victor’s not looking at him. “Okay. I’ll grab my—” 

And he’s darting out to swipe the clipboard from his desk. He makes a mental note to have it on him at all times. When he returns, Victor has produced a poster board and is carefully pinning onto it the polaroids and their accompanying post-its. 

“This one.” Victor points at one of polaroids. “4C, put it down for Karlie Kloss and make a note for Sara.”

Yuuri flips onto a fresh page and writes. He’s determined to make these the best notes ever. Victor continues to mention the names of people he doesn’t know—editors and writers for the magazine, Yuuri imagines—but he takes it in stride, not missing a beat and scribbling down everything that Victor tells him. He makes another mental note to add the names to his roster later. 

 

 

—

 

 

Mila’s gone for nearly two hours, and Yuuri understands, now, why this is a two-person job. 

After taking notes for Victor it’s as if a dam breaks, and Victor floods him with tasks. He’s moved on from the awkward exchange over the notes and is in complete power mode, which Yuuri thinks he recognizes by now. It’s when Victor purses his lips and touches his chin or mouth, and usually this is combined with squinting eyes and the push forward of his shoulders. When something is really serious, commanding all of his attention, Victor artfully rolls his sleeves back into neat, compact folds. Yuuri files away all of these observations for future reference. 

“Get me Celestino on the line,” Victor tells Yuuri. 

Yuuri has no idea who Celestino is or how to get him on the line, but he nods. By some miracle, he finds a leather-bound directory book at Mila’s desk after some digging through. He feels a bit guilty for searching her things, but figures that “Victor asked for it” is a solid excuse. He finds _‘Cialdini, Celestino'_ on the list and dials the number. 

“Ciao, ciao,” a deep voice chirps into the phone in two rings. 

“Um. Ciao, ciao,” Yuuri says, fumbling over the words. “This is Victor Nikiforov’s office.” 

“Ah, _bene_! I was just thinking of him,” the voice happily says in heavily accented English. 

“Right. Okay, hold for one moment, please.” Yuuri spies a button on the phone that says _‘Transfer’_ and punches it. He sticks his head into Victor’s office. “I have Celestino on the line, I think.”

Victor’s shuffling papers in his hands. “You think?” he repeats. 

“Um.” 

Victor presses a number on his phone. “Celestino?”

“Ciao, ciao!” a voice rings back. 

Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief. 

Then, Victor is thrusting the stack of papers in his direction. “I need you to make copies of this.” 

And it goes on like this for awhile. Yuuri will return having done whatever it is Victor’s asked for, and Victor will have for him a new request, not even batting an eye. When Yuuri comes back with what might be Victor’s third set of copies he needs made, he waits as Victor takes them without a word. 

When Victor still doesn’t say anything, Yuuri coughs. “Um, is there anything else I can do for you?”

Victor tucks the papers into a manila envelope, flattens the metal pins at the top to properly close it. “No,” he says simply.

Just like that. 

So Yuuri goes back to his desk and sits down in his chair. He realizes he’s panting slightly, which is kind of embarrassing, but it also thrills him a bit. It looks like he’ll continue working away his weight after all—and that’s not an excuse for him to get drunk off cheap wine more often now that his work life has gotten considerably more stress-inducing. Definitely not. 

It feels like he’s only able to catch his breath for only a few seconds when Mila reappears. Victor walks out of his office at almost the same time. Yuuri’s confused until he looks back at the first page of notes on his clipboard and remembers the time. 

**_12pm run through  
Side note: what’s a run through? _ **

“Where’ve you been? Can you bring the board?” Victor asks the first question to Mila and directs the second one to Yuuri. 

Yuuri scrambles out of his seat to duck into Victor’s office and grab the board of polaroids. He’s careful to make sure the post-it notes don’t fly off. When he rejoins them, Victor’s nodding at Mila, assessing whatever she’s said to him. 

“Fine,” he says curtly. Mila only looks at him apologetically, and when Victor starts walking they trail behind him, flanking his sides. All the racks on this side of the floor have been removed, and the hallways are empty of people. For a moment Yuuri thinks everyone’s just disappeared, but then he finds that whenever someone’s about to turn their way, they immediately stop upon noticing them and walk in the opposite direction. 

Strange. 

“Doing okay?” Mila asks Yuuri. 

Yuuri hugs his clipboard to his chest with one arm, readjusts his grip on the board with the other. “Yeah.” He steals a glance at Victor, who’s walking a few feat ahead of them. He hesitates before whispering, “Um. What’s a run-through?” 

If Victor’s heard his stupid question, he doesn’t react. Yuuri exhales slightly. 

“It’s like an editorial meeting,” Mila explains, matching his soft volume. “We run-through the next issue, editors talk about their spreads, we make changes to the aesthetic.”

“Oh.” Yuuri sighs with relief. “Okay, yeah. We did that at Jetsetter.” 

“We have a run-through Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” 

Yuuri nearly stops walking as he properly processes her words. “Wait. Three times a week?” 

At Jetsetter, their editorial meetings had only been once every two weeks. They’d meet successively only if a matter was really urgent to cover, like that time Virgin Air stopped all flights for three days to celebrate Earth Week, or something. 

“We make a lot of changes,” Mila says firmly. “A lot.” 

Yuuri thinks about the Wikipedia page about Victor and HMC, the reputation that they have. The things they’ve achieved. Three times a week sounds just about right, then. 

When they enter a conference room located in the center of the headquarters, there are already people seated around a large white rectangular table. Yuuri follows as Victor and Mila make their way to the head of the table, right in front of a flatscreen monitor. He spies an empty display stand and gingerly props up the board before taking the empty seat on Victor’s right. 

He doesn’t miss the way some of the people around the room are giving him curious looks, and he swallows. He can physically feel the redness returning to his face. There’s one man three seats away from him who’s blatantly staring at him, black hair styled in a quiff and eyes not quite as blue as Victor’s. When the man notices Yuuri looking back at him, he shoots him a dazzling smile and Yuuri flushes harder, tears his eyes away. 

“Where’s Chris?” Victor asks. “He’s late.” 

Yuuri looks at the clock on the wall. It’s 11:45. He scribbles a small note in margin of his notes. 

**_HMC runs 15-20min ahead of regular time._ **

“Should we start without him?” someone asks. 

“Yeah, JJ, let’s just talk about the creative spread without the creative director,” Victor says dryly. Someone else stifles a snort. JJ pouts. 

Mila is tapping away on her phone. “He’s here.” 

Right on cue, Chris appears from around the corner of one of the hallways and strolls into the room. 

“Sorry,” he says simply. He looks totally relaxed as he takes an empty seat, and Yuuri has to stare at him in awe. If Victor were looking at him like he’s looking at Chris right now, he’d turn to stone, probably. 

Yuuri feels a tug on his sleeve and turns his head to the left. “Notes,” Mila mouths. 

He flips to a fresh page and poises his pen to write as Victor starts the meeting. 

 

—

 

Note-taking is also a two-person job. The meeting lasts only thirty minutes, but it feels like only ten. It’s conducted briskly, moving from department to department as each editor debriefs the team on their progress and receives feedback in return. When someone’s not talking, the sound of Mila and Yuuri’s pens quickly scratching over paper fills the silence. 

On top of transcribing what each person is saying, Yuuri takes the opportunity to update his roster.

**_Michele - Accessories_  
** _**Christophe - Creative Dir**_  
_**Mila + Yuuri - Sec**_  
_**Celestino - ?**_  
_**JJ - ?**_  
_**Georgi - ?**_  
_**Seung-Gil - health and fitness (?)**_  
_**Guang Hong - ?**_  
_**Leo - ?**_  
_**Otabek - beauty (?)**_  
_**Sara - beauty**_  
_**Emil - ?**_

The thing is, is that it’s hard to tell, exactly, what each person covers. For example, at one point the man named Seung-Gil says, “I added polaroid 11A to to my blurb on dried fruit for the vegan piece.” 

And then there’s the man who had been staring at Yuuri—Georgi—jumping in with, “But Lagerfeld’s doing a collection on cranberry shades. I think I should have it instead.” 

“Lagerfeld’s also given us the okay to release some sketches from it to build PR,” Chris adds. “I have them in my office.” 

At that, Victor looks at Yuuri. “What did I put down for 11A earlier?” 

And suddenly the room’s attention is on him. He flips to the page of notes from earlier, hopes it’s not too obvious that his hand is shaking. “Um, 11A to Georgi.” 

Georgi sits back, satisfied, as Seung-Gil sighs and jots something down on his pocket-sized moleskin. 

A woman named Sara, at least, is straightforward about which department she represents. “Do I get to have the Karlie Kloss interview for Beauty’s piece on the new autumn shades from L’Oreal?” 

Again, Victor looks at Yuuri, and after Yuuri peeks at his notes, he nods to confirm. Sara claps happily, making a note in her own notebook.

When Yuuri flips back to his original page, Victor’s giving his paper a curious look. Yuuri has to stop himself from flying his hands over his notes to cover them, and tries to casually look straight ahead, hand absent-mindedly continuing to record the meeting at the bottom of his paper. 

When the meeting ends, half of the editors have scrapped the pieces they walked in with and are tasked with sending new memos to him and Mila for Victor to review that evening. Yuuri finally, finally looks down, hoping his notes are legible. He startles to see a different set of handwriting on the page. 

The roster’s been filled out for him.

******_Michele - Accessories_**  
_**Christophe - Creative Dir**_  
_**Mila + Yuuri - Sec**_  
_**Celestino -** designer_  
_**JJ -** celebrity news_  
_**Georgi -** runway_  
_**Seung-Gil - Health and Fitness ~~(?)~~** yes_  
**_Guang Hong -_ **_lifestyle_  
**_Leo_ \- **_culture_  
_**Otabek - ~~beauty (?)~~** digital media_  
_**Sara - beauty** yes_ _  
**Emil -** website blogger_

Yuuri’s eyes widen, wondering just how much of his notes Victor pored over. He looks embarrassingly at where he’d written, **_Colorscolorscolors. Don’t die, or worse—get fired._**

“Um,” Yuuri says, looking up, but Victor’s eyes meet his only for a brief second before he averts them to the table to gather papers he had accumulated throughout the run-through. 

“Yuuri, right?” he turns to see Georgi peering down at him. He’s wearing that smile again, and Yuuri swallows. 

“Hi,” he greets, not wanting to be rude. 

“I just wanted to tell you that you look absolutely fantastic,” Georgi says, still smiling. “Tell me, are those—“

“Yuuri.” 

They turn at the sound of Victor’s voice. 

Victor’s frowning. “Can I get more coffee?” 

“More coffee?” Yuuri echoes. There’s already a cup in Victor’s hand; he had filled it himself when Victor finished off the one from Coffee Bean awhile ago. He looks questioningly over at Mila, but she only shrugs, shakes her head. “Right now? More coffee?” 

Victor nods firmly. “Right now.” He stares back at him. 

Georgi’s staring at him.

Mila’s staring at him. 

He sees Chris in the corner of his eye, also staring at him. He figures everyone else who’s still in the room and hasn’t filed out yet is doing much of the same. 

“Uh, okay,” he says. And then he gathers his clipboard and makes his way out the door. 

 

 

—

 

 

**[HMCOUTURE SLACK CHANNEL: #editors_random]**

**emiln** : that was… super weird? right? 

**sarac** : like a new victor level of weird?

**michelec** : had a feeling it was going to be a bad idea 

**guanghongj:** did something happen? i left for lunch already

**georgip:** am i in trouble? 

**sarac** : i’m not sure… i can ask mila

**georgip:** please

**leodi** : what happened? 

**guanghongj:** sg, want me to pick you up mcd?

**seunggill:** stop it

**seunggill:** anyone know where otabek went? i’ve got something to upload to the website 

**michelec** : i think the plan w new guy is off the table. or if not, then it should be

**leodi** : aw but we barely started

**jeanjacquesl** : thank you, georgi, for taking the heat off of me

**emiln** : the heat’s always on you, jj

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, google:
> 
> “what do you do when you’re a secretary for a Very Important Person anyway”  
> “pretentious shades of blue”  
> "pretentious shades in general"  
> "do fashion people eat"  
> “hot boy in pinstripes” **not related to the fic at all, i just wanted to look at a hot boy in pinstripes 
> 
> one last note: for those who don't know or got lost, slack is a *real* app used for office communication. think of like a corporate facebook messenger where you can privately message co-workers or hold group chats, but instead of chats they're called 'channels.'


	3. yves saint laurent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working at HMC is like this, like putting out fires and playing catch-up and doing research and then—getting caught off-guard, thrown off-kilter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this is real, yes this is back, yes this is dedicated to U 
> 
> **History Maker Couture Covers:** Issues [No. 1](http://nicaforov.tumblr.com/post/157599005804/issue-1-feat-victor-nikiforov-brought-to-you-by), [No. 2](http://nicaforov.tumblr.com/post/158345001639/issue-2-feat-yuri-plisetsky-inspired-by-history)  
>  designed by the brilliant [nicaforov](https://nicaforov.tumblr.com/)

There is a sort of anxious energy that Yuuri is currently experiencing, and he wants to blame the coffee. He’s never drank so much coffee in his life. He doesn’t even drink coffee, usually. He grew up on tea. But when he grabbed more coffee for Victor, he went ahead and also poured himself a cup because he needed—something. Something to do while he ponders this.

This:

People exchanging glances and whispers as he walks through the HMC floor back to Victor’s office. Yuuri can’t make out what they’re saying but he can sense that they’re talking about him, just like they’ve been talking about him all day, but it’s a bit different now. More speculative and anticipatory and… different. Because things tend to be a bit different when your boss scribbles in your notes and asks you to go for a coffee run with coffee still in his hand.  Because it’s weird. Right?

Yuuri mentally goes through what happened at the run-through again. There was an audience, and they were clearly expecting something, but he can’t figure out what it was they were expecting and if they ended up getting it. Probably not.

As he’s walking, he hears whispers along the lines of _Georgi_ and _trouble_ and _he’s losing it_. Yuuri’s not sure if “he” is Georgi or Victor or himself. His jeans are still tight around his thighs and it’s hard to carry two mugs on top of his clipboard as he walks but he somehow manages to balance everything on one forearm just so he can take a swig of coffee. Feel the hot liquid slide down his throat and settle warmly in his gut, calming his nerves for now until the caffeine hits him later.

Also this:

Victor’s literally still sipping the cup of coffee he _already_ has—the cup that Yuuri had refilled for him just before the run-through—when Yuuri approaches his glass door. Like, he is mid-sip when he looks up and notices Yuuri, who raises one of the two mugs in his hands, before his eyes are widening and he’s quickly waving him in.

“Hey.” Victor nods when he enters, delicately wiping at the corner of his mouth with his finger.

“Coffee?” Yuuri says, as if he didn’t just hold up the mug two seconds ago.

“Ah, thank you. I needed more,” Victor says, gestures at a spot on the table for Yuuri to set the mug down.

It’s strange, how he manages to sound both nonchalantly surprised that Yuuri’s brought him _the specific thing he’s asked for_ at the same time that his words sound rehearsed; too smooth, too round around the vowels. His movements are fluid as he sits up straight in his seat and folds his hands on the table in front of him, fixes Yuuri with a determined look.

“I’m really sensitive to digestive temperatures and it affects how I work, so sometimes I need a beverage that’s slightly hotter than the other so I can pace myself. I know it’s odd, but working with two mugs is not uncommon for me.”

“No, of course. I understand,” Yuuri says, even though he doesn’t, but he’s not really going to call his boss out on a bullshit explanation, is he. He doesn’t even know why Victor Nikiforov’s trying to explain himself. He’s... Victor Nikiforov.

Victor exhales in relief. “You do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yuuri’s nodding too enthusiastically. He can’t stop, and so he sips again at his own coffee just so his body has variety in what it’s doing. “Temperatures are… big.”

“Some more than others, yeah,” Victor agrees.

“Yeah.”

Honestly, there are other things Yuuri has learned today that he understands less.

So he just nods again and excuses himself. When he sits down at his desk, he takes another sip and ponders this:

Victor is definitely staring at him through the glass walls. He can just—feel eyes on him. He raises his head to check, moving slowly so that maybe if Victor _is_ staring at him he’s got time to look away and Yuuri can confirm that he was kidding himself. But he looks up, and Victor’s definitely staring. Yuuri stares back.

Mila sighs loudly from her desk across the room. Yuuri immediately tears his gaze away and reaches for his coffee again. He busies himself at his computer, or at least tries to look like he’s busying himself. Really, he’s opened up the notes app and is just typing **_WAHTS HAPENING_ ** and **_???? !!!! @@_ ** over and over again. The caffeine is starting to make his fingers jittery.

He clears his throat.

“I’m typing up minutes and I’ll send out the editor assignments,” he says.

“I did not ask,” Mila replies. “I’m not your boss, Yuuri, you don’t have to update me.”

“Right.” Yuuri pauses. “Oh, should I—? Do you mean I should update Victor? Isn’t he busy? Should I tell him now?” When he glances over at her, she’s giving him a very unimpressed look. “What?”

She sighs again.

There’s also this:

**[HMCOUTURE DIRECT MESSAGES: @georgip + @yuurik]**

**georgip:** hey yuuri  
**georgip:** i’m sorry about earlier  
**yuurik:** hello georgi!  
**yuurik:** um that’s okay  
**yuurik:** but you didn’t do anything wrong?  
**georgip:** oh but i did :(  
**georgip:** it’s why—  
**georgip:** ugh i wish i had some time today but… deliverables  
**georgip:** do you think we could grab lunch or something sometime and i could explain?

Yuuri frowns at his screen, only barely comprehending that something truly distressing must have taken place at the run-through. Lunch with Georgi and getting an explanation from him might be nice, actually, if it will clear up all the weirdness from today. He’s in the middle of typing out _ok :)_ when his mailbox pings with an email from Victor. It’s standard—the subject reads “Please Print”—but it makes Yuuri look up, into Victor’s office.

He’s typing away on his computer, the afternoon sunlight blasting through all the windows in his office. The expression on his face looks calm (calmer than usual) and it makes Yuuri exhale, for some reason, chest clenching anxiously. He quickly sends the message and closes the window before Georgi can respond.

When he reaches for his mug again, his fingers are shaking, just a bit, and he almost cries with relief when his mug comes up empty. The caffeine is getting to him in the worst way.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces, standing up.

Mila doesn’t look away from her screen. “Yuuri, you don’t have—”

“Don’t have to tell you, got it,” Yuuri says almost robotically, nearly mock-salutes on the spot. He shakes his head at himself. “No more coffee,” he whispers.

 

\--

 

“Should we go dancing later?” Yuuri levels a stare at his reflection, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s his third trip to the restroom this afternoon.

“Like, uh. Clubbing?” Phichit’s voice asks in his ear.

“No, like dancing. At a studio. Or we could go running! Or that Soulcycle place you go to. Could I do that? Could you get me into that?”

“Is this about the note I left in your lunch?” Phichit asks. “The jacked-out bunny cartoon is supposed to be gentle and encouraging, not... _intimidate_ you into a lifestyle of fitness.”

“What? No, I haven’t had lunch yet,” Yuuri says, voice echoing throughout the men’s restroom. He switches his phone to his other ear just in time to hear Phichit make an affronted noise.

“Yuuri, do you know what time it is? You should go eat.” He gasps. “Oh my god, are they starving you? Is it starting?” He gasps again. “Did they tell you that you need to exercise? That’s so fucked up. Oh my god, I’ll fight them. I’ll tell them off.”

“Phichit—”

“Fine, I’m not actually going to tell them off,” he amends. “But I’ll tell Lilia to tell them off.”

“Do not do that,” Yuuri says quickly. “No, they’re not starving me or making me exercise or anything like that.”

Phichit exhales audibly. “Well, that’s a relief. Wait, no. You should exercise. For fitness!” he adds. “For your health and fitness and not because of your appearance. Okay? You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. He exits the restroom and starts making his way back to Victor’s office. “No, listen. I have so much energy right now. And my mental health in general is going crazy because—new job. First day.”

“And Victor Nikiforov,” Phichit says agreeably.

“So much is happening. _So much_ energy.” Yuuri lowers his voice, like he’s confessing: “I drank a bunch of coffee.”

“Oh,” Phichit says. “ _Oh_. You’re wired!”

“Yeah, that,” Yuuri confirms right as he’s attacked by a huge brown wall, knocking him to the ground right outside of the office doors.

Not a wall—a dog.

Not brown—Yuuri’s mind scrambles for the exact shade of brown. Pearwood? Dark elm? Tortilla?

(It’s not tortilla, Yuuri knows immediately.)

(Still.)

The image of a tortilla-shaped dog invades his thoughts as footsteps approach and a voice calls out above him, the mass of brown fur laying thick stripes of saliva across his face all the while:

“Oy! You dumbass dog. What did we say about climbing on furniture?”

Cedar, maybe. Or perhaps a light coffee. In any case, Yuuri finds himself reaching up to scratch at the poodle’s ears and laughing where he’s pinned underneath her. “You must be Makkachin.”

“Oh, shit. It’s a person,” the voice says in surprise.

The poodle is abruptly pulled off of his body, and Yuuri finds himself looking up at a young teenage boy. He’s beautiful, as most up-and-coming runway models are, and he dresses the part. In a leopard and pineapple-print sweater, a gold belt, and matching leopard-print shoes, however, his style is definitely… louder than anything else Yuuri has encountered so far at HMC.

“You must be Yurio,” Yuuri says, blinking up at him. Immediately, he feels kind of dumb—as if he hasn’t seen him plastered on the front page of magazines and ad campaigns nonstop for the past few months.

As if he doesn’t share the sharp good looks and thin pursed lips with a certain editor-in-chief.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, glancing into Victor’s empty office. He hadn’t realized that Victor’s brother Yurio was _that_ Yurio.

He sees his phone on the ground next to him and grabs it. “Phichit?”

“What was that? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yuuri stands, unsteadily, because with the way the tight denim stretches across his legs it’s hard to bend them at all. He brushes at his knees and thighs, like he’s trying to get dirt off of them even though the floors here are white and immaculate. “Can I call you back? I have to go.”

“‘Kay, I’ll let you know about the studio! I think I know a guy.”

Yuuri ends the call and glances up to see the boy scrutinizing him openly; harsh yet gorgeous. The resemblance to Victor is clearer now, but when he blatantly rakes his eyes over Yuuri’s outfit, Yuuri thinks that’s where the resemblance stops—whereas Victor’s expressions can be hard to gauge at first, Yurio’s impression of him is clear as day.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Yurio asks, not even trying to hide his disgust. He pauses, then, suspicious. Squints at him. “Are you allowed to be here? Who are you?”

“I’m—hi. I’m Yuuri.” He tries for a smile, extends a hand for him to shake. “Victor’s new secretary,” he clarifies.

For a panicked moment, his hand hovers in the air unacknowledged as Yurio’s eyebrows knit together, blue-green eyes giving him another once-over. Eventually, he reaches out to pinch at Yuuri’s thumb in some bizarre semblance of a handshake, wiggling his finger back and forth.

Yuuri has to ask himself, in this moment, is it him? Genuinely, is it him? Or is this kid super weird?

“Huh.” Yurio drops his hand unceremoniously and rubs the pads of his thumb and index finger together, as if to feel for some lingering texture left behind from Yuuri’s touch. “So you replaced what’s-his-name. Fucking denim jacket vest guy.”

_Replaced… denim jacket vest…_

“...Do you mean Andre?” Yuuri offers hesitantly.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Yurio gives him an annoyed look, clutching tighter at the Louis Vuitton-monogrammed leash in his hands.

Makkachin pulls against it anyway, scurrying forward to try and sniff around Yuuri’s shoes.

Yurio sighs and lets the leash drop, and the poodle surges forward to pad around Yuuri excitedly.  “Dumbass dog,” he mutters. He looks up. “Where’s my brother?”

Yuuri tilts his head to think, walking towards his desk to reach for the clipboard while the other hand drifts down for Makkachin to scent and lick. “He was going over the details for a shoot with Chris, but he should be—“

_“Makkachin!”_

“—here soon.” Yuuri cuts himself off quickly and stumbles back into his desk as the poodle rips away from his hand to charge at the door and into Victor’s open arms.

Yuuri has to take in the scene before him: a large, brown—no, _light coffee-coloured_ —poodle licking at Victor’s face while his manicured hands rake her furry coat, cooing all the while.

Mila had appeared with him, and she subtly closes the door to their office now as people seated at nearby cubicles peer curiously into their corner office. The doors and walls are glass so they can still easily observe what’s happening, but they don’t have the luxury of hearing Victor murmur, “Ah, I missed you, too. You look so pretty.”

Yuuri almost stops breathing. It’s terrible. He wants to say it’s just jarring, because Victor Nikiforov is so decidedly different from this, from Victor With A Dog. Man Reunites With Furry Companion. Man And His Best Friend. Like terrible movie titles, and Yuuri would honestly watch all of them. Because it is truly terrible, hearing cooed compliments fall easily from his mouth. Yuuri shakes his head.

 _Your boss, your boss, your boss,_ he chants to himself.

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken out loud until Victor’s attention turns to him, Makkachin still squirming in his arms. “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” Yuuri’s mouth automatically snaps shut, and his face heats with embarrassment.  

Next to him, Yurio scoffs while Mila sits at her desk across the room, small smile playing at her lips.

“Nice to see you, too,” Yurio huffs, crossing his arms. A repeated _Dumbass dog_ goes unsaid. Makkachin continues to stare up at her owner and pant happily, bright pink tongue lolling out. Victor turns away from Yuuri to flash the blond an easy smile, hardly apologetic.

“Ready to go?”

“I’ve _been_ fucking ready,” Yurio mutters, stalking out of the room. With all the leopard print he’s sporting, he very much resembles an angry predatory cat making his way through a jungle, which.

 _Hey. A jungle._ Another apt metaphor for HMC, Yuuri thinks. He stares at the combination drawings of pineapples on Yurio’s sweater and corrects himself: another apt metaphor for fashion in general.

Yurio lets the door click shut behind him, and the staff members still staring at them are quick to return to their computer screens as he glares and walks past.

Victor scratches at Makkachin’s neck one last time before he straightens up, winding the end of her leash around his hand. He nods at the two secretaries.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he says.

“Wait.” Yuuri reaches around his desk, ripping off a post-it he had stuck on his computer monitor. “I got a call earlier from Patrick? And he said… um.”

He squints at the pastel blue paper, where he’d written: **_URGENT! Patrick (super French voice) storyboard 30_ **

His face heats further at the comment he’d noted hastily during the onslaught of calls that had come through in the afternoon, but it’s nothing compared to the mild terror that clenches in his gut when Victor raises an eyebrow at his pause. He steps forward and holds out a hand.

“Maybe I could try reading—“

“No, no,” Yuuri says quickly. He thinks he’s had _quite_ enough of the embarrassment of Victor reading his notes. Mila also appraises him from the corner of his eye but he clears his throat and continues. “It’s… oh! He has the storyboard ready for you to look over,” he exclaims with relief. “For his shoot.”

Victor gives him another one of his indecipherable looks before finally saying, “I’ll take a look when I get back.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving Yuuri to collapse into his seat with a groan.

“You have to chill, Yuuri,” Mila says from her desk, not unkindly. “It’s just Victor.”

He looks up and squints at her. “Did you just say, _You have to chill, it’s just Victor?_ Did you just—?”

Mila rolls her eyes. “I promise, it’s not this bad. There’s just been some extra stress lately.”

“Sorry, what?” Yuuri shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m still stuck on that… that _it’s just Victor._ ”

Just Victor.

 _Just_.

Mila sighs.

 

\--

 

 **To:** Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**From:** Yuri Plistesky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**Subject: CODE CRIMSON (REALLY RED)**  

> otabek,
> 
> what’s the deal with victor’s new secretary? something’s up. please see attached report on my thoughts.
> 
> yurio
> 
> **Attachment:** **  
> ** DONOTREADIFURNOTOTABEK.docx

**To:** Yuri Plisetsky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**From:** Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**Re: CODE CRIMSON (REALLY RED)**  

> Yuri,
> 
> Why are you e-mailing me? You have my number. You can text me these things. iMessage can receive files now, too.
> 
> Yuuri Katsuki just started with us today but he transferred over from Lilia Baranovskaya over at Jetsetter Magazine. I try not to pay attention to the gossip but I hear he’s doing a satisfactory job so far.
> 
> The document is empty. Can you re-send?
> 
> Otabek Altin  
>  Digital Media and Outreach  
>  History Maker Couture

**To:**  Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**From:**  Yuri Plistesky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**Re: Re: CODE CRIMSON (REALLY RED)**

> that was on purpose. i have no thoughts. this guy’s tricky to figure out. i think we’re dealing with something serious here. (didn’t u see the CRIMSON?)
> 
> we’re going to need all hands on deck on this one. gather your best interns.

**To:**  Yuri Plisetsky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**From:**  Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**Re: Re: Re: CODE CRIMSON (REALLY RED)**

> Yuri,
> 
> I have several questions. Please pick up your phone.
> 
> Otabek Altin  
>  Digital Media and Outreach  
>  History Maker Couture

**To:**  Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**From:**  Yuri Plistesky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**Re: Re: Re: Re: CODE CRIMSON (REALLY RED)**

> omg you are right. we shouldn’t be leaving digital traces behind. that yuuri could be lurking anywhere.
> 
> lemme call you after this photoshoot.
> 
> i am glad to have a strong force like you on my side.

 

\--

 

“So I was thinking _Nude Awakening_ ,” Chris begins.

He makes a gesture with his hands to show off the clothing rack he had pulled into Victor’s private office. The garments are made out of all kinds of textures—velvet, silk, something he had called a bounce gingham. And they were indeed very, very nude; all soft creams and dark beiges and neutral colors.

“Nude awakening,” Victor repeats. He leans back on the front edge of his desk and presses a finger to his lips, his other arm wrapping across his middle. When he doesn’t say anything else, Chris springs into action.

“We could have this dress and this fur… oh, and I love this jacket. Yeah, this jacket with this skirt. Maybe we could pair that top with…” Chris walks expertly around the rack, pulling off hangers and organizing them into separate clusters as he builds looks for his concept.

Yuuri’s pen flies across his clipboard as he tries to make notes, but it’s not exactly manageable when he has no idea what the names each style of clothing has. It’s another thing to add to his ever-growing list of things he’ll need to learn, but for now he’s stuck with notes that read like,

 **_Chunky jacket from the Civil War except instead of red white and blue it’s nude white and more nude_ ** , and

 ** _That fur hat that… Anastasia (?) wore in... Anastasia_** **_(???)_**

He’s got to work with what he has for now.

Chris brightens when Mila pulls the door open, holding it out for Michele to walk through with another rack. “Oh, fantastic! I needed that Marc Jacobs. Okay, hold on. Sara…?”

“Sara’s on the way,” Michele confirms, settling into one of the plastic chairs along the wall of the office room. He pulls out a notepad from his pocket—Yuuri makes a mental note to ask him later where he finds fashionable pants with pockets that large—and a pencil from behind his ear. “And I think Georgi said he had some things for you, too.”

He shifts his eyes warily to Victor, careful to bring up the runway editor after their awkward moment at the run-through before. But Victor shows no sign of having noticed Georgi’s mention, and Yuuri watches as he continues to examine the ensembles that Chris has put together. It’s difficult to tell whether or not he’s buying the idea.

When Sara and Georgi arrive, the former toting a stack of poster boards and the latter pulling along his own rack of clothing, the space in Victor’s office grows noticeably smaller. Still, like this, Victor’s presence has never seemed larger. He’s mostly quiet as the editors take turns demonstrating different outfits, and when he does make comments they’re things like, “Lots of fur, then?” and the intonation of his voice and the quirk of his eyebrow is enough to make the team look at each other and rearrange the whole thing.

Mila has to leave halfway through to tend to a phone call, something important that Yuuri isn’t yet ready for, apparently, and she gestures at him to continue taking all the notes he can for the rest of the meeting.

“Is this really the message you want to be sending in the September issue?” Victor asks, finally. He steps off from where he had been leaning against his desk and makes his way to the main rack, fusses idly at the threads of a feather scarf.

At this point, Chris looks tired and spent, the sleeves of his white knit sweater carefully rolled up to his elbows. Still, his eyes are bright and his Adam’s apple bobs with excitement as he slides his glasses off from where he had put it on top of his head. He lips at the end of one of the temple arms.

“It’s the kind of story no one can resist. It’s bare skin. _Skin on skin_. Patrick said he’d shoot it—“

“On top of his other shoots?” Victor asks with a raised eyebrow.

“We’ll get it done,” Chris assures. “And it will be gorgeous.”

“Of course, it’ll be gorgeous.” Victor sighs. “That’s not the problem. Doesn’t it seem, I don’t know, one-dimensional?”

“Skin on skin,” he repeats. “Bare bodies. You can’t get more three-dimensional than this.”

Yuuri can’t help his snort, and he’s quick to clap his hand over his mouth, but it’s too late—the whole room stills.

Chris turns to him, frowning. “Something funny?”

Yuuri’s already shaking his head. “No, definitely not.”

He’s an idiot. _An idiot._ He’s fired for real this time.

Hazel eyes bore into his, the hint of a pout forming around Chris’ frown. “If you think there’s something wrong with my spread, I’d like to hear—“

Yuuri’s mouth is running before he knows it. His clipboard tumbles into his lap and frees up his hands to gesticulate wildly in front of him.

“No no no, it’s okay. I mean great! It’s great, your shoot is great. It’s beautiful. It’s, um, nude. And... there could be more to it, but there’s not, and that’s... great,” he says lamely. He tries for a smile. “You know, understated nudity! I get it.”

Everyone’s staring at him with open mouths, even Victor. Yuuri shifts uneasily.

“I mean, if that’s what you were going for. I don’t...” He exhales. Raises his hands with palms forward. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know anything. It just sounded like—never mind. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It just sounded like what?” Chris presses.

“Just.” Yuuri waves his hand, stalling. He feels his face warm. “Like a tagline. _Nude Awakening._ It’s skin on skin. You can’t get more three-dimensional than this! Jazz hands,” he says out loud, as he does jazz hands. He immediately covers his face. “Oh my god.”

“Oh _my_ god,” Georgi repeats.

“He’s so cute,” Sara says under her breath, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as she lets out a little squeal.

“What was that before?” Chris asks, glancing around the room. “Understated nudity?”

Sara shuffles through her poster boards. “I mean. It totally works.”

“It’s totally brilliant,” Georgi agrees. Michele is quick to shoot him a warning look, and everyone glances at Victor, who had gone still, continuing to stare openly at Yuuri. When Chris clears his throat, his gaze tears away to look at the creative director. They exchange some sort of silent conversation.

 _What is happening._ Yuuri shifts again, holds his clipboard against his chest like a security blanket.

Finally, Chris sighs.

“Well, alright.” He waves the hand holding his glasses in Yuuri’s direction. “But I’m borrowing him.”

Yuuri stills. “Sorry?”

Victor smiles tightly. “Fine.”

“And I get to use the Balmain sweater when it comes in.”

“That has _nothing_ to do with—“

“Victor.” There’s a gleam in Christophe’s eye now, and Yuuri gets the tiny feeling that even though Victor is his superior on paper, the dynamics of their relationship don’t always necessarily reflect that. Sara, Georgi, and Michele aren’t even batting an eye right now, instead busying themselves with packing up the racks.

“Fine,” Victor says again, curt.

Chris grins warmly. “Génial.”

 

\--

 

**[HMCOUTURE SLACK CHANNEL: #editors_random]**

**sarac:**  @georgip u rlly thought

 **georgip:**  i really thought

 **georgip:**  he’s too much, honestly

 **leodi:**  what happened?

 **sarac:**  it’s nothing, new andre just, you know, ruins lives

 **guanghongj:**  omg what

 **sarac:**  with his cUTENESS

 **leodi** : lololol what the

 **georgip:**  u guys don't understand

 **georgip** : wait hold up is he here

 **otabeka:**  Yes.

 **milab:** yes

 **georgip:**  ohmygod

 **emiln:**  does new andre even know that he’s new andre

 **leodi:**  is new andre even online

 **milab:**  yes

 **otabeka:**  Yes.

 **jeanjacquesl:**  why do we even call him new andre

 **jeanjacquesl:**  andre was only here for like, 2 seconds

 **guanghongj:**  yeah i dont even remember what his face looks like anymore tbh

 **emiln:**  @otabeka @milab yes new andre knows he’s new andre or yes new andre is online?

 **milab:**  yes

 **otabeka:**  Yes.

 **emiln:**  so both?

 **emiln:**  ??? hello

 **emiln:**  …wow

 **emiln:**  [victor voice] ur fired

 **georgip:**  EMIL

 **michelec:**  emil… oh no…  

 **sarac:**  LMAO

 **guanghongj:**  emil omg u cant just

 **jeanjacquesl:**  im tearin up

 **emiln:**  [new andre voice] sorry

 **georgip:** EMIIIIIIIIL

 **leodi:**  LIME

 **sarac:**  nooooo don’t touch new andre

 **sarac:**  LIME

 **emiln:**  LIME

 **leodi:**  whoops… EMIL*

 **guanghongj:**  LIME HAHAHAHAHA

 ** _emiln_** has changed his nickname to **_limen_**

 **michelec:**  emil no

 **otabeka:**  I am sorry, Emil

 **limen:**  for what

 **limen:**  wait no

 **limen:**  otabek plz don’t

 **_otabeka_ ** has changed **_limen’s_ ** nickname to **_emiln_ **

**otabeka:**  I have to maintain the rules as IT mod :(

 **emiln:**  :(

 **guanghongj:**  #RIPLIME

 

\--

 

Yuuri imagines what it must be like to work as a firefighter, then entertains the thought of him doing that. Because that’s what working at HMC feels like: putting out fires.

Or actually, maybe not putting out fires. Maybe seeing the fires and just rolling with it. Like that meme that Phichit had shown him the other night.

“That’s fine,” Yuuri says under his breath. He’s got a message from a designer that Victor had wanted to meet with saying that they’re no longer available today, but could they please reschedule to some other time this week? “This is fine.”

It’s not fine at all. Victor’s completely booked, and this designer is new and has a feature in an upcoming issue, and Victor needed to see them _yesterday_ , but only has time to see them today. Because any other day there are other designers, editors, photographers, event coordinators—

“This is fine,” Yuuri says again, more firmly. He types out a response, asking to see any pieces they could have ready for Victor to see at all. Barely resists the urge to start it with, _Listen do you even know who the hell you’re cancelling on???_

Sometimes, things are fine like this, like they can be solved with a few emails and maybe a forcibly cordial phone call.

Other fires are more resistant. They can’t be solved with emails because some things—fashion things, industry things—they come to most people at HMC intuitively, or through experience. Yuuri does not have either of those.  No, instead, Yuuri has: Google. Siri. And, more recently, an actual subscription to _History Maker Couture._

The people he is working with are astounding, Yuuri realizes. Of course, they are astounding, they work here, under Victor. _Hand-picked_ by Victor, Yuuri remembers from reading the HMC Wikipedia page. So he looks at their work and they are brilliant; he reads their recent pieces, then all of their old ones, accumulating them on a pile by his bedside table with the pages filled with personally marked post-its in between them.

Victor actually catches him one day swiping a whole stack of post-its from the supply closet and a few of the team’s beginning issues gathered in his arms. Yuuri feels like he’s been caught doing something illegal and tries to open his mouth to maybe apologize— _sorry for stealing your office supplies i’ll pay you guys back? i’ll bring back more post-its? where do you guys get these fancy pens with the erasable tips, by the way?_ —but Victor doesn’t say anything except:

“That September issue is my favorite,” he says, quiet. He’s looking at the magazine cover a bit wistfully. “We’re really proud of it.”

The sincerity attached to his words makes Yuuri’s breath catch in his throat, makes his eyes trace Victor’s face in one picture-perfect moment where the editor-in-chief looks nostalgic, almost vulnerable. It lasts a split second before the moment shatters, and Victor is shaking his head. He mutters something about being careful with the copy, and then something about how he needs more coffee. Then he’s striding away, disappearing down the hall and leaving behind the faint scent of warm vanilla.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, belatedly, to an empty room.

That night, he reads the issue cover-to-cover twelve times over. At least.

Working at HMC is like this, like putting out fires and playing catch-up and doing research and then—getting caught off-guard, thrown off-kilter. Working with Victor is like this, like putting out fires and then feeling like water.

Water, like a mist:

Victor beckons Yuuri into his office one day and asks him what he thinks of a set of pictures spread out across his table. Some movie actress is strategically covered in peacock feathers, laid out in various poses and her hair is streaked with some sort of paint and framed wildly around her face. In some of the pictures she is holding a huge white-shelled tortoise against her chest, like a divine symbolic reptile mama.

“They’re… good?” Yuuri says tentatively, and Victor snorts.

“Of course they’re good, this shoot cost me nearly three hundred,” he says. “What do you think for a spread, though? Chris says he wants to choose a cover from this and I told him he’s out of his mind.”

“Wait, back up. Only three hundred dollars?” Yuuri asks, surprised. When he turns, Victor is looking at him with an indecipherable expression again. “What?” Victor raises an eyebrow. “Oh my god, three hundred _thousand_?”

Victor smiles wryly. “Welcome to high fashion.”

“Oh, jeez.” Yuuri raises a hand to touch one of the pictures, fingers skimming lightly over the shiny gloss of the paper. “Wow. How much of that was the tortoise?”

He braces himself for a ridiculous number, some wacky percentage. He does not expect for Victor to laugh.

Yuuri glances up to see him holding a hand up to his mouth, laughing into his skin like it will somehow stop the sound from spilling over his lips. Yuuri almost panics because of how completely unprepared he is for this situation. Victor Nikiforov is honest-to-god laughing and Yuuri doesn’t know what to feel, how to act. He blinks at him for a few moments, speechless, before he’s grinning too, unable to help himself because Victor looks so genuinely amused.

 _This is what a smile is supposed to look like,_ Yuuri thinks. _This is how a laugh is supposed to sound._

“The _tortoise_ ,” Victor says when he’s able to gather his breath, “she’s wearing peacock appliqué and a laser cut headdress and you wanna know about the _tortoise_.”

“That’s a headdress?” Yuuri’s mouth falls open as he glances again at the pictures.

This time, Victor actually lets out a quiet, “Oh, Yuuri,”— _oh. yuuri. that’s me_ —and the smile in his voice washes over Yuuri like mist.

Water, like a crashing wave:

Some days, Victor doesn’t even make it to the office at all because of the sheer amount of people he has to see, and the sheer amount of New York City traffic. Probably a proper third of his day is spent in the back of his town car, being shuttled to various offices around the city.

Some days of some days, Yuuri joins him.

“He still needs an assistant, and I have to hold down the fort here,” Mila had explained to him the first day he was ushered to go. “You’ll be fine. Take his forwarded calls and check your inbox often.”

Yuuri hears, in a voice that sounds too much like Phichit, _You will be in a small enclosed space with Victor Nikiforov for a sustained amount of time._

Yuuri hears, in a voice that sounds like Chris, _Good luck._

Some days of some days, Yuuri sort of dies.

“That bar is nice,” Victor says absently, pointing out the window. “I haven’t been in awhile. Could you arrange for my next evening meeting to be there?”

Yuuri follows his finger to a swanky-looking corner bar, all dark wood paneling and black leather. He thinks he sees a group of men at the storefront smoking actual cigars.

“Oh, nice,” he says. He clicks his pen open to make a note of it in his clipboard.

Victor glances over at him. “Have you been?”

“Oh, no way.” Yuuri shakes his head.

“No way,” Victor repeats. He rests a finger over his chin and looks at him expectantly.

“That’s just not really my kind of place,” Yuuri explains.

Victor hums. “And what’s your kind of place?”

He tilts his head, and Yuuri catches the movement like it’s happening in slow motion, kind of distracting. It’s the slope of his neck and the way his fringe brushes over his eyes. It’s his eyes, looking straight into Yuuri’s. It’s being the focus of Victor’s attention and feeling the completeness of it, like he could drown in it.

“I don’t, um. I don’t drink out too much,” Yuuri stammers, overwhelmed. “Mostly when I drink it’s just at home. In my pajamas, in front of the TV, you know.”

He realizes a beat later that he sounds like a complete loser. Victor is out here socializing at literal fancy historic-looking saloons and _in his pajamas, in front of the TV_ is not something that Victor Nikiforov would know.

“Sometimes I like to go to Minako’s,” he hurries to add. “It’s this bar in Brooklyn? I know the owner and she’s really nice. They have these really good pork bun appetizers.”

“Ah,” Victor says.

He looks out the window again, and Yuuri thinks that’s that.

Then, “We’ll have to go sometime.”

It takes a bit for Yuuri to process.

“Oh,” he says in surprise. “I don’t know if you’d—it’s not really the type of place you have a meeting. It’s super lowkey.”

“Alright.” Victor shrugs, still looking out the window, everything still cinematically slow. “We’ll go for the pork buns then.”

Again with _we_.

We’ll. We will.

And Yuuri knows, _knows_ , he doesn’t mean “we” like “you and me.” It’s more of “me and then there’s you.” Basically it’s “we” as in Boss Accompanied By Secretary. Strictly Business. Professional. Yuuri is professional, even if his heart is crashing against his chest like a wave.

“Sure, I’ll make a note of that,” he mumbles, clicks his pen again.

Water, like it’s freezing over:

Yuuri gathers enough from a few offhand comments from Mila that Victor’s currently experiencing extra stress. He narrows the stressors down to: the pressure of putting out a new (better) September issue, and Yakov Feltsman.

Yakov Feltsman of Feltsman Group, as in the mass media company that owns _HMC_ and _Jetsetter_ , among several other publications. Yakov Feltsman as in Victor’s boss.

Victor’s boss is probably not someone to piss off, Yuuri thinks. Tragically, Victor likes doing just that.

“Uh, Victor? It’s Yakov.” Yuuri holds the phone out as the driver lowers the volume of the radio, lets the phone’s ringing fill the car.

Victor sighs and tilts his head against the backseat. “ _Yakov_ Yakov? Or Yakov’s secretary Yakov?”

“Um.” Yuuri glances at the screen. “There’s a ghost emoji?”

Victor waves a hand. “Let it go to voicemail.”

A few moments later, the phone rings again.

“Victor, it’s... Yakov Skull Emoji?”

“Ugh.”

Victor opens his palm for Yuuri to give him the phone. Yuuri watches him decline the call himself, and then hand the phone back to Yuuri.

“He’ll call again in two seconds, then you’re gonna pick up and say I’m in a phone conference with Antonio,” Victor instructs him. “And then I want you to hang up before he can respond.”

Yuuri frowns. “Is that a good idea?”

“Don’t care,” Victor mutters under his breath. He closes his eyes, crossing his arms in front of him.

When Yakov Ghost Emoji calls, Yuuri gives one last glance at Victor before picking up.

“Victor Nikiforov’s line, this is Yuuri.”

_“Hey Yuuri, this is Nadya.”_

“Did Yakov want to speak with Victor?”

_“Yeah, is he available?”_

Yuuri bites his lip. “Is it urgent? Victor doesn’t have much time.”

 _“Um. Well. Yakov wanted to talk to him as soon as possible?”_ Nadya says, which is secretary-speak for “this isn’t urgent but my boss is expecting this to happen so it pretty much needs to happen.”

Yuuri can sympathize.

“When’s Yakov free next?”

_“Hour and a half? Two hours?”_

Yuuri checks Victor’s schedule. He covers the mic piece of the phone and lightly taps Victor’s shoulder.

“Victor?”

Victor peeks at him. “You haven’t hung up yet.”

“Victor, could you talk with him in two hours? He says it’s important.”

He scoffs. “Of course it is. It’s always important. I don’t wanna deal with him at all today, Yuuri.”

“No, look.” Yuuri shows him his screen. “If you answer his call in two hours, there’s a phone conference with the UK branch like five minutes after, and you can say you need two of those minutes to prep, which you do.”

Victor blinks at him.

“And you’ll still have Makkachin with you then, so if you don’t want to you don’t even need to pay attention during the remaining three minutes,” Yuuri points out. “Anyway, then you don’t have to piss him off and Yakov can let out whatever he needs to let out and he won’t disrupt the rest of your weekend.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says, kind of exhaling the vowels. It makes something in Yuuri’s gut squeeze tight, makes him want to shiver all over when Victor’s breath settles over his skin, cool.

“Or I can just hang up,” Yuuri says quickly, already putting his phone back to his ear. “I’ll talk to Nadya, sorry, I’ll just—”

Victor shakes his head, tugs his wrist back a bit. “It’s fine, I’ll answer his call in two hours. Promise.”

After Yuuri sorts that out with her and hangs up, Victor scoots over to the middle seat and nudges him with his shoulder.  

“Look at you,” he says, amusement coloring his voice.

Yuuri freezes at the weight against him. “What? Look at me, what?”

Victor shakes his head. “It’s just. Mila didn’t teach you that.”

“What.”

“Mila would have hung up, like I told her to,” Victor tells him.

Yuuri’s face warms. “Sorry.”

“It’s good,” Victor assures him. “You’re good.”

He slides back to his seat after a moment, but Yuuri still feels the pressure of him there, this phantom weight that makes his right side feel like it’s on fire, and for the remainder of the car ride the rest of his body feels ice-cold.

 

\--

 

**[HMCOUTURE DIRECT MESSAGES: @sarac + @yuurik]**

**yuurik:** hi sara. i read your recent piece on color-blocking and wanted to ask you a few questions? if you had some time?  
**yuurik:** you referenced a few collections and i just wanted to clarify a few things about how some designers have gone about blocking. and some of its rules in general. i found the bit about recent blocking trends super interesting and i wanted to hear your thoughts on what that means for the upcoming spring  
**yuurik:** if you have time!!! sorry i know this is a lot  
**yuurik:** i can condense it to 2 big questions or  
**yuurik:** something  
**yuurik:** 1 big question or 2 small ones, ha. combo deal  
**yuurik:** sorry um. im spamming you with notifications. just let me know. thank you for your time!  
**sarac:** sorry i was in a call!! hey no worries  
**sarac:** you free rn for lunch?

“Oh, sweetie,” Sara says when she finds Yuuri at the office canteen, sitting at a round table in the back corner by the windows. There’s a pretty view over the Hudson River and the seats here are nice, soft bouncy leather. “Oh, honey. What are those.”

She nudges his ankle with a stiletto-covered toe and pouts at his shoes.

“They’re… H&M?”

Sara shakes her head. “Low quality, last-season, and environmentally and ethically destructive. But they’re cheap and I understand that it is not your fault.” She pats his hand and settles into the chair next to him. “It’s the system.”

“Right.” Yuuri shoves egg into his mouth as she produces a Tupperware and metal chopsticks from her bag.

“All right. Your questions.” She points the end of her chopsticks at him. “Hit me.”

Sara is patient as she listens to him speak, and super enthusiastic when providing him with explanations. It’s nice. Talking to her makes him feel comfortable, like understanding fashion is possible. Like being Victor Nikiforov’s fashionable second secretary is a properly accessible thing now.

Everything Sara talks about warrants a follow-up question, and then another, before springing into a different tangent about fashion. It’s not enough to fit into one meal, so he finds himself eating with her over the following days, until Georgi messages him. He wants to follow-up on the lunch he had promised since the run-through incident, and ends up joining them.

“I forgot what it was like not to eat at my desk,” Georgi says with an air of drama. Next to him, Sara rolls her eyes.

“Not so loud or Leo will come for you.”

“Why am I gonna come for him?” Leo appears and seats himself next to Yuuri. Guang-Hong settles down on Leo’s other side. “Hey, guys.”

“Georgi’s been eating at his desk.”

“Snitch,” Georgi mutters. “Here we go.”

“We’ve been through this,” Leo tells him, frowning. “Mentally associating your work area with the place where you eat lunch is detrimental to your overall productivity.”

“Keep things separate,” Guang-Hong nods solemnly.

“Work has its own area.” Leo uncovers his takeout container and fans the steam from his teriyaki bowl into his face, breathing it in happily. “And food has its own area.”

Georgi purses his lips and gives him an unimpressed look. “I check my emails when I’m still in bed in the morning.”

Sara snickers while Guang-Hong gives out a tiny gasp.

“ _Dude_.” Leo blanches. “You are a grown-ass man—”

They take a few more minutes of bickering and another well-intentioned brief TedTalk—“It’s called a TedTalk To-Go,” Leo says proudly, “and you’re welcome,”—before Yuuri brings up the run-through.

“Ah, the run-through,” Georgi says thoughtfully, chewing through a mouthful of salad.

“The run-through,” Sara says in a different tone, excited.

“Listen, Yuuri. If there’s something you have to know about HMC it’s that we don’t get new people very often.”

“Practically never,” Guang-Hong adds.

“Aside from mandatory industry functions, I don’t think our editorial team ever socializes outside of ourselves,” Leo says. “It is frankly concerning. I’ve been meaning to bring it up.”

Sara waves her hand. “Save it for brunch on Sunday. Oh, Yuuri! Join us for brunch on Sunday. Mine and Mickey’s place.”

“So the run-through,” Georgi cuts in. The way he leans forward makes his quiffed hair bounce, distracting. “It wasn’t that anything really went wrong.”

“We had a plan.”  

“We just wanted something like this. Lunch with you, talking to you.”

“We had a whole group chat. We just wanted to get to know New Andre, you know?”

“O...kay,” Yuuri says, mildly overwhelmed. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with it.” Georgi sighs.

“We’re kind of embarrassing,” Leo tells him.

“We’re not embarrassing,” Sara protests. “We just got excited about Yuuri and he’s super cute and doesn’t know anything. He’s like a baby bird joining our flock and we’re gonna, like, feed him worms from our mouths and raise him and help him spread his wings.”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose at this imagery.

“Embarrassing,” Guang-Hong confirms. “Hopeless.”

“We need to socialize with other people,” Leo mutters.

“Here’s the thing,” Georgi cuts in again, trying to rein it in. “We’re just kind of close and get caught up in ourselves easily, and it’s _not_ a bad thing,” Georgi gives Leo a look before continuing, “but when Victor’s around it gets…”

He trails off and waves his fork in the air, looks around at them like he’s asking for help.

“Awkward?” Sara offers. “I guess it’s awkward.”

“Which _is_ a bad thing,” Leo adds, returning Georgi’s look. “He’s our boss and he put this team together but when he’s around suddenly all we can talk about with him is work.”

“And it’s like he _knows_ ,” Georgi says, leaning forward again. “Like he knows we’ve got this in-group thing and we don’t know how he feels about it, but we definitely feel terrible.”

“Terrible,” Guang-Hong nods.

“But we can’t help it,” Sara points out. “He’s like… our boss. And we’re like… like...”

“The other day we had to physically restrain JJ from using our connections to commission Dolce and Gabbana to design his next tramp stamp,” Leo provides. “He gave up after three hours but we pretty much have to keep an eye on him for the next seventy-two hours until he gets obsessed with something else.”

“We’re taking shifts,” Guang-Hong tells Yuuri. “Wanna join the next one?”

“The point is Victor knows we’re a lot, and I think it embarrasses him,” Georgi finishes. “I think he’s pretty much accepted that we’re embarrassing, and I guess he just doesn’t want you all caught up in it.”

Yuuri frowns at this. He can’t speak for Victor’s thoughts but, running over how he's gotten to know Victor over the past couple of weeks, he doesn’t think this is true. If Victor knows them as well as they say, they’re probably missing something crucial here.

Then again, it’s Victor, and he hand-picked them from the very beginning. If they’ve known him all this time, they most likely know better than him. For now, he decides to keep quiet and later accepts Sara's invitation for brunch. 

 

\--

 

There’s a light tap on his desk, and Yuuri glances up to see Victor and immediately blanches.

“I’m trying to convince Villaseñor to get us in today,” he tells him, almost pleading. He pulls up the email from the designer from before, who’s cancelled again. Victor looks tired, like he knows. Mila has said that he just gets a sense for this kind of stuff but, seriously, how does Victor already _know_? “His assistant said there were some pieces that aren’t ready yet, but I told him to show us what they’ve got so far anyway.”

Victor’s expression turns confused. “What?”

“Villaseñor cancelled today’s meeting,” Yuuri says. He scratches nervously at his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Victor asks, still confused.

“Because…” Yuuri bites his lip, searches around his desk helplessly. “Because I’m supposed to be handling your schedule and making sure everything is going smoothly? Because on the day of my interview your hairdresser cancelled and it pissed you off, I think? I don’t want to piss you off?”

Victor sighs. “Tell Villaseñor he’s got one more week.”

Yuuri drafts up a new email immediately.

“And he has to have all the pieces finished, _plus_ at least three storyboard concepts.”

Yuuri nods.

“And I am _not_ going to be this generous again.”

Yuuri nods again. “Okay. Anything else?”

Victor pauses to think. “Ask him to bring those chocolate candies he had at his last afterparty.”

“O-kay.” Yuuri types for a bit and then double-clicks his mouse. “Done. Did you want me to move up your other meetings?”

“How much of my day is open now?” Victor asks. Yuuri checks the planner.

“About three hours?”

“Are you doing anything important right now?”

“Um…”— _other than my job?_ —”...just fielding calls, I guess?”

Victor nods at this. He has a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to smile. It’s not unattractive—Victor Nikiforov could never be _unattractive_ —but this. This feels a bit strange. “You wanted to go shopping, right?”

Yuuri stares at him dumbly. “Excuse me?”

“Properly shopping,” Victor clarifies. “You said you wanted to find out what it means, right?”

 _From his notes._ Yuuri glances at his clipboard in betrayal. “Um. Right?”

Victor raises his wrist to check his watch. Nods again. “Call up the car then.”

Yuuri licks his lips. “We’re… going shopping?”

“You’re going shopping,” Victor corrects, but his smile softens, turns a bit more genuine. “I’ll help you.”

“Help me?”

Victor waves a hand. “Help you, style you.”

“Style me?” Yuuri kind of squeaks.

Victor shrugs. “You can style yourself, but.” He does not finish his sentence, necessarily. Instead, he switches it up and offers, “We’ll get you there, how about that?”

“You’ll help me,” Yuuri says again.

Victor sighs and taps his watch. “Two hours and six minutes, Yuuri.”

“Right right right.” Yuuri texts the driver and reaches for his bag.

“ _Leave_ that.” Victor is already by the door, holding it open.

Yuuri drops his hand immediately. “Right.”

 

\--

 

 **To:**  Otabek Altin (otabeka@hmcouture.com)  
**From:**  Yuri Plistesky (pyochaplisetsky@gmail.com)  
**Subject: CODE (SCARLET RED) CRIMSON (KEEP IT CATCHY)**

> otabek,
> 
> i found something u need to check out. we’re talking scarlet red. red red red.
> 
> btw have u seen my phone charger

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...hi!!! 
> 
> it’s here!!! hahaha wow it’s been like decades, how are you? is the family well? i like what you’ve done with your hair. 
> 
> i'm sorry this is so late. like so so late. thank u for opening this link. i hope u liked this chapter. am nervously twiddling my thumbs rn. i’m very appreciative of the love y’all have been giving, especially from readers who have been waiting patiently for this update as well as new ones who saw the horrendous published/updated date but took a chance on this story anyway. 
> 
> [PLS LOOK AT ALL OF THIS ART U WILL NOT REGRET IT, ITS JUST A LOT, LIKE A LOT AND ITS ALL AMAZING](https://forovnix.tumblr.com/post/162086300166/kings-in-couture-art-for-chapter-3-updated-26-jun). i swear to u. also, if u've made art and it's not on this list pls message me so i can update it!!!! i sincerely appreciate everyone who has made kic art or shared kic art and im just rlly happy that this au has been so well-received and just. thank u
> 
> i feel like im forgetting something in these notes but aaaaaaa let's just. im gonna hit post now. thank u so much for reading, again! if there were any mistakes my apologies i edited this myself. i'll fix things or add things later etc etc 
> 
> ♥♥♥♥♥♥


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